History Will Tell Us
by PineappleApproves
Summary: (Based on the Netflix series) An ancient alien race's reemergence, pioneered by the Star Cluster Council, sparks unrest across the universe. Being a young civilization, humankind on Earth is able to remain immune to the growing tension. Then one day, the SSSP and Ultramen find they can ignore it no longer if they are to keep their world safe.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note: So picture this—Christmas break of 2019. My brother and I are browsing Netflix for things to watch on a lazy evening and we stumble upon the Netflix original (although it's based off of a 2011 manga) anime series _Ultraman._ Now this gave us a bit of nostalgia since we watched the old school, live-action Ultraman show as kids. We decided to give it a watch, more to humor ourselves: "Ha ha, remember Ultraman from when we were younger? Let's just watch one episode of this for the laughs." And we did._**

**_We expected it to be bad and laugh at how bad it was compared to what we remembered from our childhoods. To be fair, we did have a good chuckle at the silly parts (what show, especially anime, doesn't have them?). But as we were watching the first two episodes, I couldn't help but think to myself, "... well I kinda like this." It got to the point where I later binge-watched the entire season on my own in two nights. And now I have to wait a couple of months for the next season to come out, so fuck._**

**_So yeah, that's the story of how I got really into the 2019 Ultraman without meaning to. And if you don't know already—when I really like something, I tend to write about it._**

**_Just as a caveat: I haven't read the manga and I don't know what's in store for season two until it comes out. When I write, I try to remain true to canon, but I also put a lot of original content in. So this is an original plot line that deviates from the show's main plot because 1) that's a story already being told by other writers, and 2) my knowledge of lore/characters is limited to season one, so gaps have to be filled by either a wiki or my head canon. So this is probably gonna be AU._**

**_If you've managed to read through all this pre-story yada yada, thanks for listening. As usual, feedback is always welcomed and appreciated. Now, without further ado..._**

* * *

_2002_—_Star Cluster Council Headquarters_

It was the second day of being "on-call" for the Council and he was getting bored—_real _bored. Maybe the Council wanted him to believe that there were no assignments for the time being, but he knew better. There was _always_ something that needed to be done. Maintaining universal peace wasn't easy, and seldom was it clean. Yeah, there was always the need for an agent—a pair of hands to dirty in order to keep another clean.

No, the real reason he was being kept on a standstill was a drab one—truth was, the Council was affording him a little holiday. How _generous_ of them. Now if only it wasn't so boring.

Still, it wasn't going to be time spent completely disconnected. He was too restless to do that. Hell, there was a pile of sand in the corner of the room that had leaked from the torn ruins of the punching bag to testify to his impatience.

Suddenly, there was a knock—a blessed sound. At his beckoning, the visitor opened the door and entered. Well now, who better to stop by than Anchor. The fellow agent was practically a brother to him. In fact, Anchor was one of the very few who knew him before the genetic modifications.

Anchor's brilliant blue eyes flickered from him to the holographic screen he had been watching—headlines relaying intergalactic news and their corresponding footage displayed.

He turned away from Anchor and back to the screen. "Well isn't this a surprise? Hope you didn't come here to gawk—come on in, make yourself at home."

As he stepped into the room, Anchor let out a sigh as a ridged, taloned hand came up to run along the thick, cord-like appendages sprouting from the back of his head. "Really, Adad, you're the only person I know who treats a day off like a curse rather than a blessing," he said. His hand came up to gesture towards the holographic screen. "Give it a rest—the universe can survive a few days without your _almighty_ protection. Take this time to decompress."

"And how can I do that when all this time it just feels like I'm holding my breath? It's maddening, I tell you." Adad rose, crossed his arms, and faced his friend. "Oh, don't tell me—the Council didn't tether you down too, did they?"

"No."

"Well." His arms dropped, and he slowly began pacing in front of the holographic screen. With a hand, he made a wide, semi-circle gesture around him. "No reason for you to stay in the madhouse, then. Did you come all the way here just to visit little old me?" He lifted a hand and made a show of draping it over his chest. "I'm touched."

"Sometimes your theatrics really get on my nerves." The cord-like appendages, tied together by a band, swayed lazily behind Anchor's head as the Piritos alien stepped up to the couch and leaned on its back with both arms. "I'm here to be your saving herald, and just in time it seems." Anchor suddenly pushed off from the couch and squared his shoulders. "Gear up, old friend. The Council's calling you in for an assignment."

"Well isn't that just _music to my ears?"_ Adad marveled, throwing his arms out in his usual, grandiose fashion. With a snap of his fingers, the holographic screen vanished. He hurried to a nearby table to swipe up his sheathed dagger. Just as he turned to where his staff leaned on the wall next to the door, he was stopped by Anchor holding up a hand.

"Before we go," the Piritos said, "I feel like I should put in a word of warning—you've got a partner for this one."

Adad answered Anchor with a light scoff, continuing towards his staff. "That needs a warning? What, did they pair me with Giro again?"

"It's a new agent," Anchor continued, his luminous, azure eyes watching Adad carefully. "Only recently recruited by the Council."

"Mmm, a rookie," Adad mused, picking up his staff. He gave it a casual twirl in his hand before attaching it and its halter to his waist. "So the Council's having me babysit? Well, hopefully this rookie will have the good sense to stay out of my way. Come on—let's get out of here."

Anchor gave what sounded like a defeated sigh as Adad brushed past him. "One more thing. This partner… It's…" he said quietly, "it's a Celuxa."

The door stopped mid-swing. _"A what?"_

* * *

_2020—Earth_

Scarcely could moonlight reach the inside of the run-down building—what used to be a shop until the owners moved away and the landlord gave up on it. From then on, it served as a rotting den to rats and roaches. Tonight, however, it housed something far more sinister.

The stench of decaying meat and fetid blood plagued the darkness. Soft hisses and clicks sounded in between sickening squelches. A dark mass on the trash-covered floor twitched unnaturally.

Outside, a figure clad in his telltale red and silver armor pressed his back against the wall. His head was turned towards the open doorway, listening closely. From within his helmet, a voice spoke through his earpiece.

"Shinjiro," it said. "Is the target confirmed?"

"Yeah. I can hear it inside. Sounds… gross."

"We've had very limited exposure to this kind of alien," Mitsuhiro Ide explained. "It's called an Ayatsnin. They've not only been banned from Earth, but several other sectors as well—or so I've heard, which means these things are _extremely_ dangerous. Proceed with caution."

"Any intel on what exactly I'm about to face?"

"Not much. They're viscous carnivores, and it seems they've got an appetite for humans. Apparently they're known for consuming their prey from the inside out."

"Oh…" Shinjiro blinked. "Shit."

"Now you see why we can't let this thing run free on Earth. This threat needs to be exterminated as soon as possible," Ide continued. "Moroboshi is still recovering from his last mission. Otherwise, I would've—."

"No, no, I got this!" Shinjiro interrupted. Honestly—that Ide still thought he needed Moroboshi with him on every mission was downright insulting. After all, he was _the_ Ultraman for crying out loud! And when it came to facing violent, human-eating aliens—well, this wasn't his first rodeo.

Shinjiro edged closer to the door. Oddly, the noises within had stopped. He counted his heartbeats as he listened—one… two… three… four.

No, there was no point in standing around. He had promised himself that he would never hesitate, and he wasn't planning on breaking that vow now. Shinjiro pushed himself off of the wall and into the doorway. Immediately, the visor of his helmet switched to night vision, turning the interior of the building into an eerie mosaic of green and black. The moon threw his dim shadow across the floor. Like him, it hesitated, before lifting a foot. As his first step came softly down onto the plaster-littered floor, Shinjiro suddenly paused. He could've sworn he heard a click.

But there was nothing but more silence. The floor was covered in dark streaks and splatters. There was a body lying close to the center of the space. With the state it was in, Shinjiro was glad his helmet kept the smell out.

The young man tore his gaze from the corpse, looking around for any sign of the alien contact. He saw the occasional black speck of a scuttling cockroach before it vanished under debris.

"See anything?"

"Just a dead guy, a bunch of trash, and a whole lot of gore," Shinjiro replied, his gaze still sweeping slowly over the decrepit interior. "You sure it's still here?"

"Positive. We're reading two major life forms in that building right now."

"Well I'm _seeing_ nothing right n—wait." Movement had caught his attention. Shinjiro turned his head, and took a step back when he realized what he was seeing.

Holy shit.

It rose unnaturally, lifting off from the ground as though connected to a puppeteer. Limbs swung listlessly, supported by a midsection that moved in a horrid, grotesque mockery of life. When it was finally upright, the corpse that had been lying in the center of the room faced Shinjiro, though its decayed face tilted downwards.

'Okay,' Shinjiro thought. 'Okay, what the fuck? I thought I was facing an alien, not a zombie. Didn't Ide say something about… something about the thing eating from the inside out? … Oh my _GOD.'_

The realization hit him just as the corpse suddenly threw its head back and confirmed his worst fears. From the mouth erupted long, spider-like limbs, thrashing and flinging droplets of blood from their pointed ends.

"Fuck. THAT!" Shinjiro couldn't help but shout out as he held his hands out, palms facing one another. The whirring, circular blade of the Specium Slice manifested between them. With a quick wind, Shinjiro threw the Slice like a Frisbee. It shot straight towards the twitching corpse's neck.

But before it could make contact, the rotten body suddenly buckled, collapsing to the ground like a discarded coat. Shinjiro caught something long and spiny quickly scurrying away. Then, it was abruptly swallowed by the darkness. Even then, he could still hear a furious hissing and the gurgling clicks of the Ayatsnin.

'I've gotta kill this thing,' Shinjiro thought, activating the Specium blades that ran along his forearms. 'No way I'm letting it do something like that to anyone else!' Something told him he'd be seeing those spider limbs thrashing in his nightmares for weeks to come.

Shinjiro paused. When another rattling hiss came from the darkness, he realized that the alien was on the ceiling. Just as he looked up, he saw the large, centipede-like Ayatsnin above him. It suddenly lunged.

_"Whoa!"_

He swung, slicing at the thing with the Specium blade on his right arm. But it moved with a speed Shinjiro hadn't been expecting. The Ayatsnin struck him in the chest like a car, knocking him flat on his back. A heavy cough escaped his lips as the air was forced out of his lungs.

Above him, the Ayatsnin reared up, shrieking a horrendous screech. Several of its front legs had been reduced to stumps by the Specium blade. Its bulbous eyes flitted down as Shinjiro raised his arm for another strike. Just like that, it was gone—its skittering steps could be heard as it retreated back into the darkness. Shinjiro took the brief lull to push himself back onto his feet.

Then, for a second, he saw it there in the corner—standing upright on its spindly back legs. It was watching him, but once it knew that Shinjiro had noticed it, the Ayatsnin flattened itself against the ground and scurried away.

"Focus, Shinjiro!"

"I'm trying, Mr. Ide! This thing's really fast!" Shinjiro stepped back, eyes darting around the decrepit room. Another shrill scream preluded something ramming into Shinjiro's side. The boy gave a choked cry as he was rammed to the debris-covered floor. He felt the thing writhing against him as attempted to tunnel its way into his torso, but it couldn't get past the suit. Blindly, he swiped an arm and was rewarded when he felt it collide against the Ayatsnin. A small line of blood splattered onto the floor. Unfortunately, the Specium blade hadn't cut deep enough to kill it. Shinjiro felt the alien scuttle off of him. Quickly, he flipped himself back onto his feet and held his arms out in a combat-ready stance.

"Try to find a pattern in its attacks and exploit it!" Ide coached through the earpiece. Shinjiro's breaths came out deep and forceful through his mouth as he watched the darkness and waited. He heard the hiss and pressed his lips together. With his breath held, he tensed his body and swung his arm just as the piercing shriek broke the stillness once more.

He saw the dark body fly through the air towards him. It was headed in a straight trajectory towards where his Specium blade was slicing. Just another heartbeat and it would—.

Suddenly, it was as though Shinjiro was trapped in a frozen moment. His arm was held out, braced for the impact. But the Ayatsnin, it was… unmoving. Held in midair.

A second ticked by. Then another. It was enough for Shinjiro to realize something wasn't right. That thing—it should've been cut in half by his Specium blade by now. But… but how on Earth was it just hovering there? Confused, Shinjiro lowered his arm.

He realized the Ayatsnin was still moving—just barely. The tips of its spidery limbs twitched, and it gave strangled gurgles. But even with those minute movements, it was stuck in midair like a mosquito in amber. And then, Shinjiro realized that the two of them weren't alone.

He thought at first that it was Moroboshi, given the glowing eyes. But that theory was quickly disproved when he realized that this newcomer wasn't wearing Ultra suit armor—rather, a black cloak that ended mid-waist. And given the skirt, this stranger was a woman. Shinjiro couldn't see her face aside from the illuminated eyes within that hood.

But what was most striking was her hand—it was extended towards the Ayatsnin, palm out and fingers relaxed. Shinjiro's eyes moved from it to the paralyzed alien.

Then, the stranger's hand rotated as though she were reaching out for a handshake. Her fingers suddenly clenched just as a horrible ripping noise erupted from the Ayatsnin. Something long emerged from its back amidst a splatter of bright orange blood and flew into the stranger's flexed hand. Whatever grip held the Ayatsnin in midair suddenly broke. The dead alien collapsed heavily onto the floor. Shinjiro's eyes widened as he realized that the thing the stranger held was some kind of long, tubular organ that had been torn out of the Ayatsnin. She gave it a disdainful look before dropping it.

"What… what did you do?"

"I gave this monster what was coming to it," the woman replied. Her voice, even with its harsh tone, was melodic and pleasant. "There are a number of governments that wanted it dead. Earth isn't the only planet on which this Ayatsnin gorged itself on innocent people." Her hooded head tilted down as she gave the organ a nudge with the toe of her heel. "I have to say, after the chase this thing led me on, putting it down like that was rather satisfying."

Shinjiro's brow furrowed. A boyish arrogance suddenly overtook him. "I _had_ it. You didn't need to interfere."

"You know what that tells me? It tells me you really had no idea what you were dealing with," the stranger replied. "What you were about to do—that's how you end up with two of them. And it looked like you were having trouble enough with just one."

"Two? You mean…?"

"Exactly. Cut off one head, and two grow in its place. As if these things weren't pleasant enough. Good riddance." With that, the stranger turned with the clear intent to leave.

"Wait!" Shinjiro interjected quickly. The woman paused. "You… your eyes. They were glowing a second ago—when you were holding that thing in the air."

"And?"

"How—?"

"What's your name?" the stranger interrupted.

"Huh?"

It was then that she turned back to him, lifting a hand to lower her hood. Dark magenta locks spilled down her shoulders. She looked human at first, but then Shinjiro registered the foreign physical features that told him otherwise—pure white, iris-less eyes, only a ridge where her nose should have been, and an inhuman, light gray complexion.

Then there was that thin, black choker around her neck, adorned with a peculiar star-shaped charm. For some reason, Shinjiro felt his eyes drawn to it. But then the stranger spoke up again, recapturing his attention.

"Your name?" she repeated.

"I'm…" Shinjiro's voice suddenly strengthened with a revived confidence. "I'm Ultraman."

He was answered with a light, tinkling laugh. "Alright. I'll play along with your little game."

"And you?"

The stranger paused, and it seemed to Shinjiro as though she were deliberating on whether to answer him. "Ilia," she finally said. "Although, if I'm to properly introduce myself, I suppose it would be Agent Ilia of the Star Cluster Council."

"Of the…? Not again."

"Again?" This time the stranger turned completely to him. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh." A part of him wondered if he had said too much. Then again, there was no harm in divulging—it wasn't like he was handing out SSSP secrets. "A while back, I had a run in with someone else claiming to be an agent for the Star Cluster Council."

"Not surprising," the woman replied. "Our work takes us far and wide, and Earth seems to attract trouble like flies…" She gestured towards the human corpse that the Ayatsnin had hidden in earlier that night. "… To rotted meat. Well, Ultraman, I'd love to stick around in this nest of vermin and gore to chat, but my work here is done. I doubt we'll see the likes of each other again, so take care." She turned, and as she did, she threw her arms out as though pushing aside curtains. Before her, the air suddenly moved in a way Shinjiro had never seen before—opening as a swirling vortex. The stranger walked into it without hesitation, and just like that, she vanished and the air was still once again.

The silence she left in her wake was quickly interrupted by Ide's voice crackling in through the earpiece. "—jiro? Can you hear me? Your signal was disrupted."

"Huh? Oh. Yeah—yessir, I can hear you."

"What happened? Has the target been neutralized?"

Shinjiro looked down at the dead Ayatsnin as it lay in a rapidly growing pool of orange. His eyes moved across the floor to the tubular organ that curled across the dirty floor. "Yeah."

"Excellent. I'll send a team to secure it then. Good job on taking it down, Shinjiro."

"Er, about that…"

Through the earpiece, he heard Ide sigh. "Well, that doesn't sound good. Head on back—you can tell me during your debrief."

"Yessir."

For some reason, the wait made Shinjiro even more nervous about telling Ide the news. Then again, he reminded himself, nothing that happened was his fault. It wasn't like the appearance of that strange agent had been under his control. And on top of that, Shinjiro was curious about what Edo would have to say on the Star Cluster Council's unexpected appearance.

But, of course, it wasn't just Ide and Edo there. Moroboshi had apparently recovered enough to stand on his own. They were waiting for him in one of the large conference rooms. The sliding doors opened and Shinjiro stepped through. The conference room's large screen still showed the live feed from one of the CCTV street cameras outside the abandoned building.

"So what's this all about then?" Moroboshi demanded, quickly cutting to the chase. "Don't tell me you got cold feet again—not with a target as dangerous and unforgivable as an Ayatsnin."

"Ease off, Moroboshi," Ide said. "I've confirmed with the team that secured the area—the target is dead."

"But I didn't do it," Shinjiro quickly interjected. His brief moment of brazenness faltered when all eyes turned to him. "I-I mean, I was about to, and then… someone else just appeared."

"How could that be?" Ide asked. "We were watching through all available street cameras. No one outside of SSSP was in that area during the entire course of the mission."

"I don't know either," Shinjiro said with a hapless shrug. "But she…" He suddenly recalled the way she had vanished. "When she left, she just… walked into the air and disappeared. I bet that's how she showed up too."

"We didn't catch any teleportation signals," Ide said, throwing an inquisitive look towards Edo. The Zettonian gave a slow shake of his head to confirm.

"That's the thing—it didn't look like teleportation." Shinjiro realized he should've stopped talking a long time ago. Even to him, the words sounded ridiculous as they escaped his lips.

"How else does someone appear and disappear without a trace if not through teleportation?" Moroboshi challenged, crossing his arms.

Shinjiro recalled how the stranger had used her hands and pushed the air as though it were water. Her doing so had opened some sort of… "Portal. It liked like a portal."

"A what?" Moroboshi growled, his face darkening into a scowl.

"A portal… you know… like the ones…" Shinjiro said uneasily, watching as each word made Moroboshi's scowl deepen. "… in the… movies…"

"This is ridiculous." Moroboshi turned to Ide. "It's clear seeing the Ayatsnin messed with his head. Get him to the medical bay—this boy clearly needs to lie down."

_"Fascinating."_ Both Ide and Moroboshi looked to the Zettonian as he uttered his first word since the start of the debriefing. Edo laced his fingers together and leaned forward onto his crossed legs. "Shinjiro, did she say why she was there? Whom she was working for?"

"Yeah, actually. The Star Cluster Council."

"Another agent?" Ide said incredulously. "As if that other one—Adad—hadn't caused enough trouble. But… Edo, why does it sound like you already knew who this person was?"

Edo leaned back in the plush leather seat, resting his hands atop his lap. "Truly fascinating," he marveled in his deep, fluctuating voice. "I did not think the universe would ever see them again."

"Edo, what are you talking about?"

"Ah. Sometimes I forget," Edo admitted, "how young humankind really is. Far too young to remember the time of the Celuxi."

* * *

A communicator lit up as it received a brief, encrypted message: _Found her. Earth._


	2. Chapter 2

"I thought all Earth assignments in that quadrasphere get passed to me! What's with another agent encroaching on my jurisdiction?"

Behind the wide desk sat a wizened man dressed in long, elaborate robes that spoke of his stature. Despite the angered words punched into the air by his subordinate, he sat with the calm, sturdy composure of a rock amidst ocean waves. "Calm yourself, Adad. I have spoken with the rest of the Council—they assure me this is a rare exception. It seems the fugitive was first targeted within the Circinus jurisdiction and led their agent on a chase—that's why she's here. An update came through from said agent just last night marking the assignment as complete. As I am the ambassador assigned to Earth, she'll be reporting to me before returning to her superiors in Circinus."

"Still, with something as serious as an Ayatsnin involved, I should've—you know how densely populated some of Earth's cities are. In any metropolitan area it would've been like trying to find a needle in a haystack."

"I had the same thoughts myself, Agent," the Mephisto Ambassador assured, "but my contemporary from Circinus assured me that this agent was more than capable. In fact, he told me to expect an update by…" He paused to check the levitating timepiece on his desk. "… 8:30 this morning, at the latest."

"Ha," Adad scoffed, still pacing slowly—step-by-step—in front of the Mephisto Ambassador's desk. "Sounds like someone has quite the faith in his agents."

"No more than I do, Adad."

"So who did they send, anyway?"

"I am at the cusp of finding out. She is on her way now."

"Ah. I assume you'll want me to vacate the room then, sir?"

"Actually… no. I would prefer if you stayed, Agent."

"Sir?"

The Mephisto Ambassador only gave a curt nod, making it clear his reasons were his own. Adad knew better than to pry when his superior grew tight-lipped like this. He simply gave a respectful dip of his head. "If that is what you desire." No sooner was he done talking did they both hear the sound of doors sliding open. And the shock he felt seeing the individual that stepped through the threshold mirrored one he had felt 17 years ago.

* * *

The sound of the sliding doors beckoned him to turn from the holograms of the Council members. What he saw was a surprise, though he expected as much. No one born within the last 600 millennia had ever seen a Celuxa in the flesh, not since the race's banishment to Reo. They were purported to be as beautiful as they were dangerous, and this one certainly lived up to one of those standards so far.

Her gaze was hard to follow, as her eyes were purely white, although Adad could immediately tell when it fell upon him. Immediately, her comely face was tainted with a scowl. She stopped in her tracks, having only taken a couple of steps into the room.

"A Scrudian?" she snapped.

"Peace, Ilia. He poses you no harm," one of the Council members assured.

'Not unless you give me a reason to,' Adad added to himself. He'd heard rumor that Celuxi possessed the ability to read thoughts, though he hardly believed it. Even if he had, he wouldn't have let it deter him from thinking as he pleased.

The Celuxa said nothing else, though her face held stubbornly onto its sourness as she crossed the short distance to stand before the Council members' holographic forms. She and Adad were several feet apart, though he still felt as though they were too close. The uncomfortable sensation he felt upon his skin nearest her could only be described as being brushed by electricity.

"The both of you are to head to Planet Sangorine," another Council member began. "We've received reports of a group of an alien cartel kidnapping and exporting Sangorinians as part of a trafficking gambit. You will put down these aliens with whatever method necessary, but with as few casualties and as little public exposure as possible."

"Of course, Councilman," Adad replied coolly.

The Celuxa gave a terse dip of her head. "Yes, Councilor."

So marked the start of their mission. The trip to Sangorine was a quiet and rather uneasy one. Very few words were exchanged between the agents. Besides, the Celuxa seemed rather intent on keeping her gaze glued to the ship's window. They were already 20 minutes into their first mission together, and introductions hadn't even been exchanged.

'Given that first impression she made when she stepped into the room, it's pretty clear she's not interested in becoming friends anyway,' Adad reasoned as he perched his feet up on the cockpit dashboard. 'Not that I'm too keen either. She may be easy on the eyes, but she's a Celuxa.' He recalled what the Councilors had told him before Ilia had entered the room—the true reason behind this mission and why he was going along.

_"Her presence here is due to a compromise that we and the matriarch of the Celuxi have finally come to," the head Councilman had explained to him. "Their matriarch has long vied for a chance to lift the banishment."_

_ "And are you sure that's a good idea?" Adad had replied. "They were cast off to Reo for a reason."_

_ "We have spent several months asking ourselves that very question, Agent, so you needn't ask it to us again."_

_ "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Councilman."_

_ "There is no need, Agent. Your concern for the safety of the Alliance is noted."_

_ "And this compromise? What did the Celuxa matriarch agree to?"_

_ "We informed her that in order for her people to rejoin the rest of the universe, the Celuxi would have to prove that they could do so in peace."_

_ Adad crossed his arms. "So this new agent I've heard of," he said. "She's your proof?"_

_ "The matriarch offered us something the Council found quite valuable. Another agent to further our cause—but not just any. One with the powers of a Celuxa. I know what you must be thinking: how can we trust this one?"_

_ "You don't. That's why you're sending me along for her first mission, isn't it?"_

_ "It's true that we want her to be supervised, but that is merely a precaution. You will be among the first outside the Council to learn that this compromise has actually been long in the making—we initially began our negotiations with the matriarch about 180 years ago."_

_ "Before I was even an agent," Adad realized._

_ "Yes. And as part of our compromise, the matriarch relinquished a Celuxi adolescent to us to raise and train in a private colony. There, she would be exposed to people of varying walks of life and acclimate to a life outside of Reo. Further, her proximity allowed us to monitor her progress and, more importantly, her integrity. We believe that she is ready now, but do not forget—she is a Celuxa. The blood of her ancestors still runs in her veins. If during this mission you see any indication—any at all—that history is at risk of repeating itself, you will report it immediately to us. Do you understand?"_

_ "I do, Councilman."_

_ "Good. Now stand by. Guard, send her in."_

Well, introductions had to happen at some point, and it was better to get them done sooner rather than later. Out here they were fellow agents, even if she _was_ a Celuxa. With a quiet sigh, Adad set his feet down. The heavy soles clunked on the metallic floor. He stood and made his way over to where the Celuxa sat, her face obstinately turned to the window.

His steps towards her were deliberately slow so he could examine her before he reached the point where he'd be obligated to start talking. True, she was a sight, but he was more still in awe by the fact that he was among the few in the universe to be laying eyes on an actual Celuxa.

She was humanoid by physique like many bipeds, including himself. Her hair was a deep purple and grew in tresses like those of Earthlings, ending just mid-back with a slight curl. But unlike an Earthling, she had no nose—only a small, nostril-less ridge under her eyes and above her dark lips.

Adad assumed she was dressed in what was typical Celuxi fashion. Her satin-like top draped around her arms just off the shoulders and met at the center of her chest with a large, aqua-colored ovular gem. Below an exposed midriff was a skirt of similar material, split in three parts to expose the legs when she walked and decorated with draping gold chains. It was a similar shade of gold to the bands that covered her forearms from wrist to elbow.

And then there was that necklace—a thin black choker with its star pendant. Adad didn't know why he found it so odd. Perhaps it was because unlike everything else she wore, it didn't quite look Celuxi.

His examination was cut short when she suddenly turned to him. Her solid ivory eyes, rimmed dark with dark eye shadow, regarded him with a hardened look. "They sent _you_ for a reason, didn't they? A Scrudian?"

"You've quite the talent for making first impressions _so_ fun," Adad replied. "If you're going to be like this for the duration of the assignment, I can tell you now that it's not going to go well."

The Celuxa let out a heavy sigh. She turned her head away. "I'm just so sick," she uttered, "of being mistrusted."

"Let's start with names, how's that? I'm Adad—pleased to make your acquaintance." It was against his better judgment to extend a hand, but he did so anyway in a gesture of good faith.

The Celuxa's eyes came up to it, and then slowly climbed up to his. A hand, hesitant and slow, rose to meet his extended one. "Ilia."

* * *

The feeble little fool looked terribly scared to be finally meeting with his contact. But the manner in which the dark form emerged from the shadows would've been enough to put anyone on edge.

From behind the dark visor of his helmet, he watched the little alien tremble. But he had no intention of harming his informant, not unless the fool got in the way of the information he was seeking. And since fear seemed to be holding the informant's tongue, he decided to be the first to speak.

"You're sure she was here on this planet? On Earth?"

"Rightly sure. Saw her with my own six eyes."

"Hmm," the figure mumbled to himself, looking up at the dark, star-speckled sky. "I doubt she's still here, and I grow tired of this pursuit. Time for her to come to me."

"S-scuse me?"

"I need you to complete another task, and I need it done by tonight. Gather help if you must." The figure, clad in a full suit of black and silver accented armor, suddenly drew the knife holstered vertically against his hip with a sharp yank. The dark, blood red gem nestled in the weapon's guard piece glinted cruelly in the moonlight. The alien informant flinched a second too late after the blade had already been brought up and dug in—

—To the plaster of the wall next to them. With the knife, he drew a particular symbol. And when he was finished, he pulled the blade back to let the informant take it in.

"I want this drawn, sprayed, burned, cut—whatever you can manage—into as many places around this town as possible by sunrise."

"B-but that's…" the informant stammered. He managed to lean in a hair-length closer to the armor-clad stranger to whisper, "y-you oughta know about the SSSP a-and their Ultramen! Any alien committing crimes attracts their attention, and then—!" The informant was suddenly cut off when his head was yanked back. The stranger had his spiny hair gripped tightly with one hand. The other held the knife, its point pressed dangerously into the soft underside of the informant's throat, just barely to the point of piercing skin.

"You refuse what I ask, and the SSSP will be the least of your worries," came the scathing hiss through the dark helmet. The knife slowly spun in the stranger's hand, and a bead of blood trickled down the informant's neck. "Do you understand?"

* * *

Earth—it would be like reuniting with an old friend. And speaking of which, there really _was_ an old friend he was looking forward to catching up with down on that blue globe. The spacecraft came just close enough to the planet for a teleportation link to be established, and in a flash of blue, Anchor was Earthbound.

He had heard exciting news about this world while he'd been on his own assignment—an Ayatsnin. Now those things, they were real nasty. Anchor had never seen one personally, but just the stories were enough to make his scaly skin crawl.

A quick stop to Babel, the Council's base on Earth, was warranted before he could head to Alien Town to visit his favorite joints. It was probably there where he'd find Adad.

Clearly much time had passed since Anchor had last been in Babel. There were too many new faces—new operatives and whatnot. The Piritos found himself at the end of many wide-eyed gazes. Steps were taken back to give him a wide birth.

It didn't surprise Anchor in the least. To those who had never seen one before, a Piritos was something to witness. The males of his kind towered well around eight feet and sported hulking builds to match. Their forearms, calves, and top of their heads were covered in rows of spiny ridges. Sprouting from the slightly elongated back of their skulls were thick black cords that served no real bodily purpose—mostly decorative, like the hair on several other alien races. Their legs, thick and double-jointed, were capable of incredible feats on planets with gravities as weak as Earth's.

But unlike the rest of his kind, Anchor saw fit to wear a metal mask that covered the lower half of his face. He was well aware of how unsightly many non-Piritos found his mouth to be and the way his mandibles opened up around it like the petals of a fleshy, tooth-covered flower. And given his line of work, he hardly ever found himself around his own kind.

As he made his way down the hall, Anchor found himself graced with a blessedly familiar face amidst a sea of foreign ones. The Piritos slowed just as he and Adad met eyes.

"I thought I felt you coming," Adad greeted snarkily. "It was either that or an earthquake."

"Cut the bullshit, Red-eyes," Anchor retorted. Finally, the distance between them was crossed. Anchor gave a loud chuckle and purposely gave Adad a hearty smack on the shoulder that had the agent stumble briefly.

"So what brings you to Earth?" Adad asked, flexing his shoulder. As they spoke, they continued side-by-side down the hall.

"Well, I'd say I earned myself a little leisure time."

"You've finished your assignment already?"

"You sound surprised."

"I figured taking down an entire alien mob would require a bit more time."

"Old friend, you seem to forget," Anchor jested lightheartedly, "that some of us prefer efficiency over flamboyance. Remind me—didn't you kill a target by dancing around on some stage here once?"

"Your summary's a little off."

"Only a little. Now, what's the status on this Ayatsnin I've heard that's making a smorgasbord out of humans?"

"That? That's old news, Anchor." The door before them, leading to outside, opened and they stepped out into the sunlight. It was a quick walk from here to the alleyway that held a Portal to Alien Town. But since they'd be out on the streets, human disguises would be necessary. Unfortunately for Anchor, his disguise didn't do much in terms of blending in to the general populace. His human form shortened him a little, but his height still had him sticking out of the crowd like a sore thumb. Luckily, the Portal wasn't too far. "The Ayatsnin was taken care of, with only two casualties."

"And you called me quick."

"I wasn't the one who killed it."

"Oh? Well kudos to whoever did. I can't say I'd be too thrilled if I had to deal with one of those."

The Portal at the end of the alleyway wouldn't have stood out at all to an unknowing passerby. Indeed, it behaved like an ordinary wall until approached by a correct signature. Once active, a faint glow would indicate that the Portal was opened.

Stepping through, Anchor found himself temporary blinded by a brilliant flash of white until his sight adjusted. Before him stretched a wide street flanked by tall apartment buildings. Street vendors and their canopy tents lined the sides of the street, decorating the path with their colorful wares of produce and trinkets. Pedestrians passed by from this way and that, going about their business. In the distance, a voice on an intercom could be heard announcing the menu of a restaurant.

And despite every face he saw being that of a human, Anchor knew that very few actually were.

"Feels like no time has passed," the Piritos sighed. "And no progress has been made. I see that disguises are still necessary even here." From his travels, Anchor grew to learn that the attitude that a planet's natives held towards aliens was told by the state of its alien towns. He knew of some places where cities had been fully integrated, and anyone could walk the streets with their true face.

And then there were places like this—where aliens were segregated into hidden towns that were poor and run-down compared to those of their native neighbors. And even with the separation, it was almost as though an alien face was something to be ashamed of and needed to be hidden away.

Oh well, such was the way the universe worked. There were alien towns out there in far worse shape than Earth's, and Anchor wasn't about to spend his free time getting political.

"That's Earth for you," Adad replied as they made their way through the bustling streets.

"And speaking of which, is Kantor's little den still open? I could go for a pint of hooch."

"You've still got a penchant for Kantor's homemade brew? Anchor, I doubt anyone who names their concoction _Jet Fuel_ makes it with a single health regulation in mind."

"That sounds like the words of a coward with a weak stomach. Don't worry—you can go ahead and get something pink and fruity instead." Adad laughed at his friend's remark and, in turn, Anchor did too.

Kantor's pub was a little hidden gem, unmarked on the outside save for a rickety old sign with faded paint that was easily missed by most eyes. The canvas drapes covering the entryway looked as though they hadn't been washed since they'd first been put up.

Kantor was the scurrying, crustacean-like alien bustling between the patrons and barking this way and that with his booming voice. One of his legs was mechanical, with the actual one having been pulled off in a family fight—or so the pub owner claimed. And despite looking as though he was busy up to his stemmed eyes, he noticed the two immediately as they walked in.

"AH—look who comes strollin' in, ya big bastard! Sit yourselves down, you two." The sharp taps of his quick, scuttling steps could be felt through the rickety floorboards as Kantor made his way over. "Come on with me—got a table over here by the corner 'n away from them loud folk. Good for talking over your, ah, business if you need to. _Aye,_ mind your step, son!" Kantor suddenly boomed to Adad, stopping him with a held out pincer. "Damn fool spilled his drink earlier, the soppin'—HO, MINCENT, I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO MOP THIS DAMN MESS UP! Dead useless, that boy." Kantor's ability to jump from volume to volume was a true talent. "Aye now, those chairs aren't just for decoration. House special for you, right Anchor?"

"You know me too well, Kantor."

"And same for you, son?"

"Ah—no, I'll just have a Sapporo."

"Suit yourself," Kantor replied with a shrug. "Hang tight—they'll be out in a blink." The floorboards vibrated with the pub owner's tapping steps. Now left alone at their little table in the corner, Anchor leaned leisurely back in his seat while Adad rested his arms on the tabletop.

"Feels good to be back," the Piritos reminisced. "Too bad it's short-lived—it always is."

"You get any sappier, you'll start writing poetry next."

"Ha! Up yours, Adad."

Kantor was true to his word—the drinks were arrived in record time. As the pub owner set down Anchor's pint—more a bucket, really—he said, "Ah, it warms this old man's heart to have someone like you who appreciates fine hooch. Tell you what—if you find yourself with an empty cup, refill's on the house."

Anchor burst out a laugh. "You're too generous, Kantor! But work will be calling before I know it, and I don't fancy having to be dragged back onto my ship."

"And who'll be doing the dragging? This poor sop?" Kantor gave Adad's back a few enthusiastic pats with his bumpy pincer. "I'm just joking around. Take your time now, boys. This pub isn't going anywhere." With that the pub owner turned, shouted a few more things to his staff, and hurried back into the fray.

"Yup," Anchor said with a content sigh. "Just like the good old days." In response, Adad lifted his beer.

"Well then, here's to the good old days."

"Hear, hear." Anchor lifted his own drink to meet the toast. He lifted a hand to gently pull the mask from his face. As it released, the mask emitted a soft hiss. Then the Piritos tossed his head, along with the bucket, back. A good amount of the brew was missing by the time he lowered it. "Say, old friend, don't think that I haven't noticed—you've been awfully quiet. Those theatrics—where have they gone?"

Adad gave a nonchalant shrug. "What can I say?" It was clear he was trying to deflect.

"Someone getting to the Ayatsnin before you really bothers you that much?" Anchor was on the verge of taking another swig, but paused to ask, "So who was it that killed the damned thing, anyway?"

"Another agent for the Council," Adad answered vaguely.

Anchor's brow furrowed. It was clear there was something bothering his friend, and the Piritos didn't like that. Anchor's brilliant blue eyes flitted across the pub, and then back at Adad. "Surprised you didn't notice," he said, leaning back with the pint held in one hand. "Little waitress over there hasn't taken her eyes off you since we stepped in."

"Not a smart move in a bustling pub," was all Adad said before tipping the beer bottle back.

"Well, she looked away when I took off my mask," Anchor said with a shrug. "But I'm sure she'd turn back if you went over there and asked for her name."

The small bowl of fava beans on the table jumped as the beer bottle was suddenly slammed down. Anchor's pint paused at his mouth. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the anger dropped from Adad's face.

"Sorry," he muttered. The Scrudian gave heavy, forceful sigh. Then, after a pregnant pause, he said in a quiet voice. "Ilia came to Earth."

Anchor lowered his pint, and then set it on the table as he leaned forward. "Is that so?"

"She was the one they sent to kill the Ayatsnin."

"I… see."

"The Mephisto Ambassador had me stand in while she reported to him. Didn't tell me why, but I'm sure he didn't savor the idea of being alone with a Celuxa. It's been—what—almost 10 years since we stood in the same room." His grip around the bottle's neck was strained. "She didn't even look at me. Not once."

Anchor's eyes radiated with concern. Rarely did he ever witness anything getting under the skin of his friend like this. "Listen—."

"I know. It's been 10 years, and I should let sleeping dogs lie." Adad loosened his grip around the bottle. Glass scraped against the wooden tabletop as he brought the Sapporo closer. His eyes remain lowered to it as he continued, "But all the things we've been through—I figured they would at least warrant a look. That's the part that really stings." He suddenly gave a forceful breath, as though trying to expel his melancholy thoughts. "It doesn't matter. Let them lie. Sorry I ever brought this sad affair up—tell me, old friend, what have _you_ been up to?"

It was abundantly clear that Adad was ready to leave the topic behind, and Anchor was willing to grant his wish. Time passed with idle chitchat and light jokes. Anchor was careful to down his drink slowly, knowing full well that Kantor would sweep up his empty pint for a refill while giving no opportunity to argue.

Finally, it was time to go. The agents stood to leave, giving Kantor their farewells and promising to come by and visit again. When they stepped out, Anchor realized how late it was when he saw how nearly all the shops had closed for the evening.

"I should head back to the base," Adad said. "How about you?"

Anchor gave a wave of his hand. "I want to stroll around for a bit longer," he said. "There was an old friend that, last time I was here, runs a little mechanic shop a few blocks away. Could revamp any dingy old motorbike into a real sexy machine. He usually closes late—I want to see if I can catch him before he puts the sign up. After that, I'll probably head back to my ship."

"Then it sounds like this is where we part ways. It's been a real pleasure seeing you again, Anchor. Catch you some other time."

"Likewise, old friend."

They went their separate ways, with Adad heading back to the Portal entrance and Anchor taking a sharp left towards the mechanic shop. The street was dim, lit by a row of dying lamps that could barely stave the darkness away. Anchor wasn't the least bit swayed by the lack of illumination or the ghostly emptiness of the street. Any street mugger or petty criminal with at least an ounce of sense in their head would think twice about engaging with a Piritos—and if they lacked that sense, Anchor was more than capable of beating some in for them.

Still, there was a strange, off-putting sensation that he couldn't quite understand as he made his way down the street. The mechanic shop wasn't far now. In fact, if memory served him correctly, he'd be reaching it soon.

Yet the unshakeable feeling pursued. And then Anchor realized there was a figure crouched up ahead. Their identity was impossible to make out at this distance. They hadn't noticed Anchor at first with their attention focused on the garage door of the mechanic shop. A soft hissing sound permeated the air. Hearing it, and seeing the can in the figure's hand as they made wide, sweeping motions over the door made Anchor realize what was going on.

"Hey!" the Piritos boomed. The vandalizer jumped at the volume of his outburst. They afforded Anchor one glance before booking it. The Piritos's steps quickened, his leg muscles bunching as they prepared to push hard off the ground to give chase. But Anchor managed only a few paces before he slowed again. He stopped in front of the garage door, taking in the symbol that had been spray-painted across its surface.

"No way…" he whispered under his breath. Even though it was a bad idea, he knew he'd have to tell Adad.


	3. Chapter 3

If they were dealing with a cartel, and had to operate with as little exposure to the Sangorine public as possible, then it was clear that a sting operation was their way forward. A little bit of smoke and mirrors was necessary to get behind the front lines, and then the targets would be exposed for the taking. Perhaps it was fortunate that a Celuxa was coming along. If this alien cartel was preying on Sangorine's young females, there was no way they'd ignore one like Ilia. Only problem was that the role of a helpless damsel was being played by a Celuxa of all things. He had a good idea how she would react. In fact, he could imagine it now. Her eyes would widen angrily and she would yell—.

_"What?"_ The Celuxa's dark eyebrows crashed furiously over her pale eyes. "Me? Get caught up in that trafficking nonsense?"

"As an undercover agent," Adad emphasized once again. "And I'll be nearby at all times. We—."

"That doesn't comfort me in the slightest!"

_"—We_ just need to get close enough to take them out—smoothly and silently—before they have any time to hunker down and retaliate… Which is also why," Adad continued, "it's better that you don't… ah, use any of those Celuxi abilities. This whole thing needs to be under control."

He was surprised steam wasn't coming out of her ears at his latest order. "Then what was the point of the Council sending me if I'm just going to be muzzled?"

"Just because we have hidden abilities up our sleeves, doesn't mean we should utilize them in every mission."

"What would you know?" Ilia hissed, turning so sharply that she nearly whipped him in the face with her hair. He could feel the forceful steps through the ship floor as she marched angrily away.

"If I'm going to have to deal with that attitude for the rest of the mission, I think I'd rather get shot up by the cartel," he called after her. If she heard him, she didn't respond. Adad sighed, turning his gaze to the window and the stars moving lazily past. "You know," he mumbled to himself, "it's times like this I really miss being paired with Giro."

As the ship neared Sangorine, the precious little time was spent strategizing—Plan A, clearly, was the sting operation. But that was only if the Celuxa was willing to cooperate, and things didn't exactly look so sunny at the moment. So Adad needed a Plan B, and a Plan C if things went south. And a Plan D if things went _really_ south.

His staff, leaning against the ship's dashboard, was snatched up. The weapon often found itself in its owner's hands whenever he pondered this deeply. As he paced slowly back and forth in front of a window, Adad idly twirled the staff in his hands. The air whistled as the staff moved in quick, circular blurs. Hmm…

But then he heard the door slide open. The staff came to an abrupt stop when Adad's fingers tightened around it. He didn't look towards the door, keeping his gaze on the ship window. Superimposed over the view of the stars outside was the ghostly image of his reflection barely reflected in the glass. "Don't forget we have a job to do," he said, the first to break the short-lived silence.

"I know." The response was soft. Her voice was devoid of the anger it had once held. At that, Adad turned. When their eyes met, Ilia said, "So what do I have to do?"

* * *

Catris was Sangorine's largest city—the metropolitan area was so vast that it could be seen from orbit as a brightly speckled smear across the planet's surface. Its business district, crowded with skyscrapers and dull-eyed commuters clogging streets with traffic, pulled in trillions of units in currency every second. Restaurants, apartments, stores, museums, and other buildings filled in the rest of Catris's grids. On foot came and went locals and foreigners alike—no alien face was hidden here.

Catris was a model city, an icon of sophisticated civilization. From the towering skyscrapers reflecting Sangorine's two suns to the bustling streets below—all of it was something to be revered.

But the golden city—it was hiding its rusted underbelly. Housed amongst the grid were the unsavory characters. There was something to be said about the effect of prosperity on criminals, and Catris held no shortage of either.

The second sun was just on the verge of setting. She paused just briefly to turn and lift her eyes to the fiery glow reflected from the glass windows. Then she turned back and continued walking. Stilettos clicked against the sidewalk. The light waned fast here on Sangorine. Only a few minutes passed before darkness crept in. The air took on a bit of a chill. It crept along the skin of her bare arms. Catris hadn't yet entered into winter, yet the night air was enough to give her a bit of a shiver. After all, her outfit had been curated to be revealing, tantalizing. Bait on the hook.

The streets were deserted. The long line of street lamps ahead of her illuminated the bare stretch of sidewalk in front of her. Yet she knew she wasn't alone.

_We'll both be out there, but only one of us will be in plain sight. I won't be far. During this entire operation, trust that I'm always close by._

The dichotomy of feeling alone in the deserted street, yet feeling watched all the same, was unsettling. Still, Ilia reminded herself that there was no reason to be afraid. A Celuxa, she reminded herself, feared nothing.

And yet there was a strange feeling in the air. It beckoned her to turn her head a few degrees to the side. After a brief pause, she looked fully over her shoulder. A silver, ovular vehicle was parked on the side of the street—a typical Sangorinian vehicle. Ilia gave it another second's stare, unable to see past the opaque glass of the windshield. When Ilia turned back to her front, her step slowed when she realized someone was in front of her.

Clearly it was a Sangorinian man. He was dressed down for someone who was lingering around in the deserted business district—clearly not someone who was leaving work late. Ilia kept her eyes lowered to the sidewalk, but found her gaze flickering up to him as each step drew them closer. He, on the other hand, didn't seem to regard her at all. But it could all just be a farce.

They were just a handful of paces apart now. As they drew closer, Ilia's hands tightened. Suddenly, the man's eyes shot to her. And just like that—just another second—they had passed each other. Ilia could still hear his steps above her clicking ones. He hadn't slowed. Quickly, the Celuxa snuck a glance over her shoulder.

The man was still walking, his back shrinking as his feet carried him down the sidewalk.

"False alarm," came the tiny voice, fed in through the discreet earpiece she wore. "There's no point in staying on this street—I haven't seen anything. Let's head to the edge of the business district. It's less illuminated. Take a right on that corner up there."

She followed his directions, though all the while he remained nowhere to be seen. As she strayed further from the heart of the business district, Ilia walked under one last street light. Her shadow drifted under her feet, stretching longer and longer with each step. Ilia peeked over her shoulder. Nothing was there save for a parked vehicle.

"Turn the corner here," came Adad's abrupt command through the earpiece. "And once you reach the intersection, take a left." That confused Ilia. Wasn't she supposed to be heading _away_ from the business district? Nevertheless, she obeyed.

She knew there was a reason he was guiding her this way. He had probably noticed something, and Ilia suspected she knew what it was.

She made a sharp turn around a building and let herself walk halfway down the block before allowing herself to give a guarded look over her shoulder.

Sure enough, there it was. A parked vehicle.

"It's been moving every time you get out of its line of sight," Adad confirmed. "Every corner you've turned. I think I have a very good idea of who our little driver friend is. Now listen to me, we need to—."

He was still talking through the earpiece, but suddenly Ilia's attention was drawn away when someone stepped out directly into her path, cutting her steps short.

It was a man—clearly not Sangorinian. An alien, by this planet's terms. His neck was long and flared in gill-like ridges. His eyes, reptilian and bloodshot, bore into hers from beneath a thick, scaly brow. At the sight of her, now that they were face to face, the unsavory slit of his mouth stretched into a grin across the horrible, rubbery texture of his cheeks.

"Well," he purred, his jagged, uneven teeth peeking through cracked lips as he spoke, "aren't you pretty?"

* * *

The desk chair swiveled slowly towards the door as it opened. A silent gaze through his single eye was all Edo gave to greet Moroboshi and Shinjiro as they stepped in. The Zettonian then turned back to the large screen that covered the wall behind his desk. He picked back up the tablet from his lap and gave the touchscreen a few quick taps. An image was pulled up onto the wall screen.

"I'm sure you've both heard of this by now," Edo began in his deep, fluctuating voice. "The alien community hasn't exactly been keeping quiet about their sudden appearances."

Shinjiro regarded the image with an uncertain look, and then gave a haphazard shrug. "Looks like a bit of graffiti to me," he said. "So… we're starting to go after bored teenagers that go around and tag things?"

"Of course not—we're the Science Patrol, not some neighborhood street watch," Moroboshi cut in sharply. "If you'd been paying attention at all, you would know this is more than just a bit of senseless vandalism. These symbols appeared all over Alien Town, seemingly overnight. All the same thing too—that X with the line coming out from the top of it. Forensics have tried running that symbol through our databases."

"And…?" Edo prompted.

"Nothing," Moroboshi said. Along with its classic stoniness, his voice was laced with disappointment. "It doesn't match any alien languages. No known gang symbols. No logos. We've got nothing to tell us what it could mean. But—."

"But," Edo interrupted in his slow tone. "We have the symbols themselves, and they give us a very big clue."

"What might that be?"

"You said it yourself, Moroboshi—they all appeared overnight in public spaces and are of the same thing. Whoever orchestrated this wanted them to be seen—clearly seen. It is a message, and I think I may have an idea who the intended recipient is." Edo's chair swung just a few degrees so that the Zettonian now faced the younger out of the two. "Shinjiro, do you know why I have called you in as well?"

"To… find this intended recipient?"

"I do not think that will be necessary," Edo replied. "Rather, I would just like you to tell me more on what you know about her."

"Her? You mean that agent?"

"Indeed. If what I suspect is true, then her presence here and the subsequent appearance of this strange symbol is no coincidence. Now the question remains—what does this mean for the rest of us?" The chair swiveled, returning Edo's gaze to the symbol. "I would rather not wait to find out. Moroboshi, return to Alien Town. See if you can track down whoever helped in spreading those symbols around."

"Yessir." A curt nod, and Moroboshi turned sharply on his heel to leave the room. Shinjiro gave an uncertain glance after him, but it was clear he wasn't to follow.

"So, you wanted me to talk? To be honest, Mr. Edo, I don't know too much about her. I told you everything about our meeting at the debrief, and beyond that, I don't—."

"Did she tell you her name?"

"Well… yeah, actually she did. Ilia," Shinjiro recalled.

At that, the Zettonian was silent. Finally, his intertwined hands parted. "Thank you, Shinjiro."

"Is that it?"

"Yes, for now."

* * *

He had reached the end of the hall, and yet still paused to look back at the distant door to Edo's office. Then, his eyes flicked to the other side of the hall. Not a soul was in sight. Still with his eyes glued down the empty passageway, Moroboshi's hand reached into his pocket. It emerged with the cellphone in his grip.

The call was made to the most recent number in his phone history—an unknown number. But that call from earlier had been incoming. The voice Moroboshi had heard on the other end had been an unfamiliar one, offering something that had seemed outrageous before but now seemed tempting after talking with Edo.

After a few rings, the call was answered. "What's your decision?" The voice was the same—a man.

"We'll talk. But only face-to-face. I'll give you a time and place in Alien Town. That's your only chance."

"Name your place."

Alien Town was as bustling as ever—everyday life wouldn't slow down, not even with the ominous symbol embedded into countless places. People just walked by them, just like they walked by a man leaning against the wall of a closed shop. The man's eyes stared out, hard and determined, yet they watched no one in particular. Reflections of passerby's, translucent and ghost-like, moved across the surface of his glasses.

The second hand on his watch ticked to the 12 o'clock position. It was then that movement appeared in his peripheral, and suddenly someone was there settling against the wall next to him.

Moroboshi didn't recognize him. At first glance, he had thought it was Jack—but the first details to grace his eyes told him otherwise. This man was taller than even Jack, and Moroboshi couldn't imagine what his true form looked like under that human guise. His hair was jet back and tied back into a ponytail. Grizzly stubble lined the edges of his squared jaw. There was something dangling precariously from one hand—what looked to be just the lower half of a mask, if that mask was riddled with the indications of alien origins. And Moroboshi doubted that contraption was made for filtering out gas. A fashion statement, maybe? Well, he hardly knew and he hardly cared.

"So," Moroboshi said, quick to break the silence and steer the conversation to the point. "You know what these symbols mean?"

"I do," the stranger answered simply. Moroboshi glanced over at him. The man was now boredly twirling the mask around his finger by one of the straps. "Simply put, it's a hate symbol—meant for one race in particular. And in our case, one individual."

"This…" What was it that Edo called her? "This Celuxa?"

"So you know about her?" Quietly, as if meant for only himself, the man muttered, "News traveled faster than I thought. This isn't good."

"You said it's a hate symbol," Moroboshi redirected, "but I don't recognize it. No one in the SSSP does."

"That's because it hasn't been used in a long time," the man answered. "Not since the universe was at war. And humanity at the time… well, I'd say your biological predecessors were still in the progress of losing a bit more hair and gaining a bit more brain mass."

"Just because it came before humans, doesn't mean they don't have the capabilities of understanding it. But no matter—I don't have the time or patience to argue your point. Back to mine—this X with a line coming up through it. What does it mean exactly?"

"It symbolizes a weapon," the man explained. The mask in his hand stilled as his grip around it suddenly tightened. "One that the Celuxa feared above all else. By the way—do you know what Celuxi are? What they are able to do?"

"I've heard… things… from one of our own," Moroboshi answered, remembering the outrageous claims he had heard from Shinjiro about the Celuxa.

"They're an all-female race originating from Planet Uisg'e, though they now reside on the barren desert wasteland of a planet called Reo. Celuxa is a name born from their native tongue. And of all the languages I have heard it translated into, I find its English counterpart most fitting. Celuxa—Celestial Witch. That symbol… it's a stake."

"A…?"

"Your planet has a history in which those convicted of being witches were tied to and burned at stakes, correct? Well, none of those had been true witches, though the practice of burning them at the stake had been influenced from a history that stretches far before Earth's. During the war, whenever possible, Celuxi were executed at the stake. That method was favored because of its symbolism—the Celuxi value water. Allegedly, it is where they draw their power. Burning them would devoid them of that, and such executions were carried out by specific individuals in particular. The sudden appearances of the symbol would announce something to the Celuxi. That fear—it wouldn't just be towards the stake itself. It would be towards who was coming. And now that it's here…" The man suddenly straightened away from the wall. He turned towards Moroboshi with hardened eyes. "A witch hunter has come to Earth."

"A witch—?"

"Now that I've told you what you wanted to know," the man interrupted quickly, "it's your turn to uphold your end of the bargain."

At that, Moroboshi paused. "So what is it that you want?"

"Cast that wary look elsewhere, lest you wish to insult me with it," the man chided. "I merely want you to tell me where the Celuxa is."

"And how would I know?"

"You've the resources of your organization backing you. Furthermore, your SSSP specializes in aliens, and this Celuxa just so happens to be one."

"Aside from our initial encounter," Moroboshi explained, "we haven't seen her since. What makes you think she's even still on Earth?"

"She'll be here. If she wasn't, she is now."

"I thought you said the symbols scare them away."

"She's not like the others," was the man's only response.

Moroboshi was curious by the sincerity he saw in the man's face—a fake face, he knew, but it showed his true feelings all the same. "Fine," he said. "Whatever we find out about this… Celestial Witch… we'll be sure to let you know. But if you don't mind, I'm curious—why?" He suspected that perhaps affection was the motive behind this man's actions until he spoke.

"I'm doing this… as atonement. For an old friend. I know he cares for her still, and gods know I should have told him about this. Couldn't bring myself to, that's the thing. He'll find out eventually—I'm sure of it. But by then, it might be too late."

Moroboshi cocked his head slightly. Could it be…? No. "Who—?"

A woman's scream pierced the air, a shrill knife slicing through the air and cutting his words short with its wicked edge. Both Moroboshi and the man turned sharply towards the horrid noise.

A young woman rushed down the street towards them, still clutching the serving platter to her chest and she frantically ran. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder, her green-blue, frill-like hair tossed in the air. Then she stopped. Looking desperately around, she stumbled towards the nearest bystander who, like the others, was watching her with a shocked, wide-eyed gaze.

"Please!" she pleaded desperately. "Please, _someone_, help! H-he's killed someone—he's going to do it again! Oh _please,_ somebody!"

The people nearest her jumped at her shrilly cries and quickly hurried away. She stumbled after them, still pleading in her crazed, frightened voice.

"What the hell?" Moroboshi snapped, reaching up to briskly adjust his glasses with a sharp push. "She's not even disguised! What does she think she's—?"

"No… oh, no, no, no," the man mumbled, his voice laced with concern. "I know her. She's from—No, this is not good." He suddenly lifted the mask to his face, pressing it over his mouth. Moroboshi caught a soft hiss as the mask automatically latched itself to the man's face, and the straps crept along the side of his face to secure themselves around the back of his head. The image of the tall man suddenly wavered, then vanished, and a towering alien was replaced in its wake. He was an Alien Piritos, Moroboshi realized. Quickly, the Piritos rushed in front of the panicked woman with gently extended hands.

"Darla! Darla, calm yourself! It's me!" The Piritos's voice had resumed to its naturally deep resonate.

"Anchor? Oh-oh god, Anchor, you have to get to Kantor's quick!" Darla begged. "H-he—that—he killed Reyek! H-he just—right in front of me—he just—!"

"Who—? Ach, no time," the Piritos responded hastily. He gently rested a three-taloned hand on Darla's shoulder. "Go home—stay inside. Everything will be okay."

"B-but he… he had," Darla stammered. "H-he… on his belt—he...!" Whatever she wanted to say was too horrific to leave her mouth, instead forcing her words to dissolve into scared stammers.

"It's okay, Darla. Home!" the Piritos reminded. To spur her to obey, he gave her a gentle push. It seemed to work in snapping the young woman out of her terrified stupor. She hurried past Moroboshi, her panic seeming to subside. But only just.

"What's going on? Someone's been killed?" Moroboshi demanded, looking back at the Piritos. "And what are you doing out of your human form?"

"Really? At a time like this, you're still trying to enforce that mundane rule?" the Piritos responded dryly. The alien had unlatched a heavy-looking, rectangular gadget from his belt. As he raised it, the gadget unfolded itself into a mechanized gauntlet. The Piritos set it over his right forearm with a firm yank. The way his body rocked and the exposed muscles of his shoulder rippled told of the gauntlet's immense weight. "Remember our deal—I need that Celuxa's location _now_. Contact your base. Do whatever it takes to get me that information."

"And where do you think you're off too?" Moroboshi took a step towards the Piritos, but the alien suddenly turned, squaring his shoulders to fully face the SSSP agent.

"Chalk this up to unfortunate timing," the Piritos said, his head bowed to look Moroboshi straight in the eyes. Still, he found himself having to crane his neck back to meet the alien's gaze. "I would have preferred that you never witnessed what just happened. What I have to do at Kantor's—that stays off the grid. Out of your Science Patrol records. Got it?"

"You really expect me to just do that?"

"You will if you don't want things going from bad to worse. This isn't a matter of the Council—this is personal." With that, the Piritos stepped back. The gauntlet on his arm began glowing within the many vein-like seams running through it, and a deep whirring sound purred from it. He held Moroboshi's gaze for a second longer before turning sharply and bolting down the street from where Darla had come, his double-jointed legs pushing him fast along the asphalt.

Moroboshi watched until the Piritos had vanished from sight—only a few seconds. He turned, his phone already in hand. He paused, tapping the screen to initiate the call, and raised the phone to his ear.

"This is Moroboshi. No—nothing to report. Listen, I want a tracking status on an individual. I need it now."


	4. Chapter 4

From where he was perched on the rooftop, he couldn't see Ilia after she turned the next corner. With his bird's eye view, he saw what confirmed his suspicions—the silver car slowly peeled away from where it had sat idle by the curb to tail the Celuxa. Adad himself was moving from one edge of the roof to the other to keep his sights on his fellow agent below.

"It's been moving every time you get out of its line of sight," he told her. "Every corner you've turned. I think I have a very good idea of who our little driver friend is. Now listen to me, we have to play this carefully. Now that we've got them where we want…" His words trailed off as he reached the rooftop edge. Resting an edge on the concrete railing, Adad saw that Ilia had stopped below. Someone was in her path, standing very close to her. Too close.

"Well, aren't you pretty?" He heard the stranger through Ilia's microphone. Adad had never heard a greasier voice than the one being fed through his earpiece.

He hadn't expected confrontation this soon. Everything had been under control—until now. He took a deep breath. Everything was still under control; he just needed to adapt. And his fluid ability to do so was what had kept him alive all these years. It's what had made him one of the Council's most prized agents, and that wasn't about to end today.

But below, Ilia didn't say a word. Deer in headlights—it was a rookie move, and one the two of them couldn't afford. 'This is her first mission,' he reminded himself, 'her first real brush with danger, and I'd be lying if I said my first run had been any different. I told her I'd be nearby at all times. Say something, Adad—she needs to hear you.'

"Hey. I'm still here. But you have to pretend that I'm not—that you're alone. You have a part to play."

Below, he watched as Ilia took a step back from the man. Someone else had appeared behind her, and that step brought her one step closer to him. "Stay back," she ordered in a firm voice. "Stay back, or I'll scream."

"What a cold response, and so unnecessary. I'm not here to hurt you, darlin'. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I want to help. Let me guess—you're out here late, strollin' around looking like a treat, because the bills won't let you rest. They're getting loud—too loud. They're screaming, and you can't sleep at night. So you dress yourself _oh so_ fine and come out here, lookin' for fellas to help you quiet those screaming bills down. Am I right, darlin'?"

There was a heavy pause. Adad grew nervous. The alien's words made even him sick—that bubble of nausea sat heavy in his stomach like a kettlebell. And if Ilia felt the same, there was no telling how she would—.

"I charge by the hour." Her voice came steady and austere through the earpiece. "Some acts cost more and some I don't do." Adad placed both hands on the guardrail and leaned further, watching the small figures on the ground.

"Oh, darlin'. _Darlin'_." That purr was like tree bark against the skin. "Don't get me wrong—you look good enough for any price. But that's not why I'm here."

Suddenly, the man behind Ilia lunged forward and grabbed her. One thick arm wrapped tight around her neck, the other took her wrist and twisted it against her back. The Celuxa's free hand came up to pull uselessly at the arm pinched over her throat. "What—!?"

"Now listen here bitch," came the gilled alien. His greasy purr had dropped into a harsh hiss. "We've got plenty of whores, and we can get so many more after you—you're an expendable pussy, so if you even _think_ of trying to make this complicated, we can pull you into that alleyway—" The alien jerked his head to the side, "—and leave a body that even the fuzz will have trouble identifying. And we'll make sure you're alive for most of it."

Adad's eyes snapped to the silver car that moved slowly towards them. It stopped, and a door opened.

"Get her in," the gilled alien ordered. The other dragged Ilia towards the car. As she was pushed in, the gilled alien leisurely followed to watch. "Oh, she _is_ a pretty one," he hissed in a bemused tone. Adad's hands tightened on the guardrail. "The boss is really going to enjoy breaking this one in."

Her ragged breaths came in through his earpiece. The slam of the car door was sharp. "Ilia, I'm still here," Adad said. The car pulled away from the curve and began to drive down the street. They were headed east. It was time to move. "I'm still here."

* * *

The stained canvas drapes were whipped aside by an arm clad in black armor. Immediately, the clamor from within the pub reached his ears. From behind the dark glass of his visor, his steely eyes scanned the patrons. She wasn't here among them.

No matter. He hadn't come here expecting her to be here. That would be too easy, and witches never made anything easy. One hand rested lazily on the hilt of the sword secured to his hip as he stepped into the pub. The waitress was easy to spot. As soon as she drew near, he intercepted her path.

She stopped in her tracks, and he spied the familiar look of fear that crossed her face as she registered the sight of him. A stranger all clad in full black armor, clearly armed, was intimidating to the average denizen, yes. But he could tell what truly frightened her—his trophies. Strewn along his belt like prized hides on a huntsman. Only what hung from his hip were no simple hides, and they certainly didn't come from menial animals.

It used to be that to identify a witch hunter, one would look at the chest plate or the guard of their sword for the blood red gem. And to identify their skill, one would look to their hip and count the witch hands. Gray, shriveled skin clinging to claw-like fingers—they were cut from witches defeated. Always just a few inches beneath the wrist—not too cumbersome to carry around, but enough to be able to string to the belt.

Eight were tied to his—four on each side. And today may well make it nine.

"The owner," he grunted. "Where is he?"

"H-he's not here," the waitress stammered. "Had to step out for—."

_"Don't lie to me!"_ He had no patience for any excuse. At his sudden, harsh tone, the waitress jumped. She had the serving platter held in front of her as though it would shield her. Ha. His sword could've cut through that like paper.

"I-I'm not! Mr. Kantor, h-he had to go see—!"

"Oiye!" another voice barked. The shrill scoot of chair legs against the floor grated through the air. His masked eyes flitted from the petrified waitress to the rambunctious alien that had stood to his feet. Judging by his movements, he'd already had quite a bit to drink. Still, the alien's actions were fueled mainly by his arrogance. Against the hilt of the sword, his fingers twitched. "Leave the lady alone! Who do you think you are, barking at her like that? Have some respect!"

He turned away from the waitress to face the alien squarely. "This isn't your business," he snapped bluntly. "Sit down. Be quiet."

"Didn't realize you fancied yourself as king of the universe! Tell you something—I see an asshole stepping out of line, I'm going to be the one putting him back in his place!"

"I'm giving you…" Each word dripped with venom. "… _one_ chance to walk away from this with your life."

"You sure do talk a lot of—!"

Those were the last of his words. No more could come out of the larynx that had been severed cleanly and quickly by the sharpened edge. But he felt the blade catch on the spine within the alien's neck—as expected. Fluidly, his other hand rose up to grip the alien by the top of his head as he gave the sword a forceful wrench. A sickening crack erupted as the blade cut through the spine, sliced through the rest of the flesh, and emerged from the opposite side of the neck in a shower of blood droplets and glistening bone fragments.

The body fell heavy onto the ground with a thud he felt through the soles of his feet. The head remained hovering in the air, still gripped by the top of the head. He lowered it, then casually threw it aside like an uninterested child discarding a toy.

He finally heard the delayed scream come from the waitress. Maybe now he'd be taken seriously and given some answers. He turned back to her. She was silent now, though hyperventilating heavily with tears brimming in her aqua-colored eyes.

"Unfortunate," he said grimly, pinching his blade between two fingers and sliding them along its length to scrape off the blood. "But I did give him his chance. And now I give you one—just one."

"I—I…" She was shaking like a leaf now. He didn't want to hurt her, he really didn't. She wasn't the one he was after. "Mr. Kantor s-said—he said he was—!"

"What the _bloody fuck_ happened here?" the booming voice demanded. The sound of scuttling taps could be heard shortly thereafter. Kantor lowered his pincer, letting the drapes fall behind him. "Darla, you get away from him—you get away from that madman!"

He watched, sword held idly in hand, as the crustacean-like pub owner scrambled over in an act of foolish bravery to push himself between the waitress and the witch hunter. "Out!" Kantor barked. "Everyone out!"

His order was quickly followed by the scraping of chairs and pounding of feet. Still standing casually, the witcher hunter turned his head to watch the rest of the patrons flee the pub.

"Doesn't matter to me," he said with a simple shrug, "if they stayed or if they went. I came here to talk to _you."_

"Look what you've done!" the pub owner cried hotly. "You damn murderer! I'll see that the Science Patrol knows! I'll see that Ultraman—!"

"You're acting brave," the witch hunter interrupted, his voice never rising from its eerily calm tone, "because you think your shell is too thick for my sword. And yes, many blades aren't sharp enough for an Alien Kannki's outer plating. Many, but not all." Suddenly, the sword that had rested in his hand was up and against the base of one of Kantor's legs. It hadn't cut through, but was lodged painfully into the crevice of the joint. "I'm here to talk—I told you already. But if you want to be difficult, so can I. How many legs does a Kannki need? How many, really?"

Kantor flinched from the sharp pain, but remained steadfast. It was impressive… albeit annoying. "I can tell no amount of intimidation towards you is going to make you bend… but what about her." He gave the slightest tilt of his head towards Kantor's right. It worked—immediately he saw fear cross the Kannki's beady eyes. "And don't you move, darling. You run, you die. Simple as that."

"No," Kantor pleaded in a low voice. "No, don't."

"You know what it'll take."

"Yes… Yes, fine I'll talk. But only once she's safe."

The witch hunter paused. Then, he slowly straightened and, with a quick flick of his wrist, wrenched the blade out from the crevice of Kantor's leg. He forced its tip deep into the wooden floor with a sharp jerk. _"Go!"_ he hissed. The waitress jumped, but other than her trembling, she didn't move.

"Darla, you run. _You run_, and you don't look back! Darla!" At Kantor's beckoning, the teary-eyed young alien darted out of the pub.

"Now then," the witch hunter continued no sooner had the drapes fallen back into place in the wake of the fleeing waitress. "I think we had a deal. So talk, you old fool. Tell me where the Celuxa is."

"Celuxa? You could only mean…" The Kannki's eyes flitted down to the blood-soaked floorboards in contemplation. "Her… her name was… aye, it was Ilia."

"I care not for her name!" the witch hunter snapped, a hand suddenly flying up to grab the pub owner's collar and yank his face closer. Kantor's eyes quickly darted up to him. In those dark, beady eyes, the witch hunter's own helmet stared back at him. "I want only her whereabouts so that I may deliver unto her what she and all her filthy ilk deserve!"

Kantor's eyes flew up to that dark, inpenetrable visor. Still, the witch hunter couldn't help but feel as though the Kannki's glare was boring into his very eyes. "You're mad—stark, bloomin' mad. Course, I knew that as soon as I stepped in and saw what you did to Reyek. So if you think I'm going to let you get anywhere near her, you'd best check yourself my friend. Go ahead and do to me what you did to Reyek, but I'm not helping you hurt that girl."

Knuckles tightened as his grip around the sword's hilt became deathly. Turning away, the witch hunter gave a quick swing of his blade out of frustration. The blade cut clean through a chair leg and scored a deep groove in the stained floorboards. "Why is everyone trying to protect her?" he growled bitterly. "She's a _Celuxa!_" In a flash, he was in front of Kantor again with the pub owner's collar bunched in his shaking fist. "A witch! Killers, all of them! They left their scars on everyone, and the Kannki are no different! I know you're not ignorant to the history of your people, old man! I know the Celuxi withered half your planet into inhabitable wasteland during the war! And look what fruit it bore! Thousands of Kannki forced to immigrate to other planets—subject to many a millennium of xenophobia and discrimination from aliens who still had their homes! The slaughtering and deterioration of your culture—all because of the Celuxi! So why _the hell_ are you trying to protect her?"

"Because I haven't made the mistake of being trapped in history rather than learning from it!" Kantor hissed back, not a beat missed. "You're rich, talking about slaughter and deterioration while thinking you can bring justice by punishing a new generation for the sins of the old. I know that girl, and I know she's not the Celuxa you think she is. So if you think I'm going to help your raving mad agenda, you best take up that sword and cut my head clean from my shoulders because I've had about enough of this horseshit!"

Underneath the dark visor, a dark scowl. "I was a fool for thinking you were of any use. Won't be making that same mistake again." The blade was once again swung, this time with the intent to draw blood.

But as it whistled through the air, the cruel edge met nothing. The space in front of him was empty as Kantor suddenly flew back out of his sword's reach. No, it hadn't been the Kannki—none of his pointed feet had even left the ground, having had drawn deep scratches in the wood from being dragged across that distance. That could only mean…

She was here.

The witch hunter pulled his blade back and looked to the door. A figure stood there, her features obscured in darkness from the sunlight streaming in behind her. But one thing was clear—her glowing white eyes. One of her hands was still extended towards Kantor.

"Ah." The witch hunter lazily flipped the blade in his hand. "So the witch is no coward."

And not one for words, it seemed. Quickly, the Celuxa's hands flew towards him and her eyes grew even brighter. But her efforts were for naught—the witch hunter felt nothing. Not even tingle. He saw those gleaming eyes widen. Well, Kantor had called her a 'girl.' This was a child, having never witnessed the war, nor what the universe had deployed in response.

"Seems you've never faced a witch hunter before," he mocked, giving the blood red gem in his chest plate a sharp tap. "Shame there's no time to ask your ancestors for help going against one—cruel was the lesson that taught them not everything would play by their rules." Suddenly, he lunged and swiped the blade forward.

In that instant, he saw her hands move again. Instead of striking the Celuxa, his blade sunk deep into the table she had suddenly pulled in front of her. The witch hunter quickly stopped in his tracks to keep from running into it. With a sharp yank, he dislodged the sword and rolled to the side as the table shot out at where he'd just been standing a heartbeat ago. As the witch hunter rose from his roll, he and the Celuxa locked eyes. Her hands, now at her sides, tightened into fists and rose.

Sharp cracks came from the trembling floorboards as they were strained to breaking point, snapping into jagged pieces. Once again, the witch hunter steadied his blade for a strike. But in that moment, the Celuxa vanished in a blink as though the air itself had closed in over her. He knew better.

He felt the ripple through the air and read it like wind, predicting where she would reappear. And she did—just as quickly as she had vanished—behind him. Oh, the Celuxi he had faced had always loved that trick. And how aptly annoying it was.

The witch hunter whirled in her direction and saw the two boards that flung towards him—one after the other. A quick swipe of his blade upwards, immediately followed by an arc downwards, and the boards were rendered into useless shards.

But this one was quick—he had known that the moment he realized she was a child among her kind. Further, his years since the war had slowed his limbs a little—just a little, but enough to put him at a slight disadvantage against this rookie. No sooner had his blade cut through the second board did he hear the telltale scrape of a table coming straight for him. And in his peripheral vision, he could tell it was coming _fast._

It struck him in the side like a charging bull and knocked him clean off his feet. He crashed into a chair, sending it flying. And then his shoulder was the first to hit the ground. As it did, his hands were already out splayed against the floor to push himself into a controlled roll. He pulled hard to orient his body up and slammed a foot onto the floor to skid to a stop.

"And that'll be the only hit," he declared softly in a breathless growl. Then he shot towards her.

Battle after battle with them had told him to pay attention to a Celuxa's hands—like the direction of a swordsman's blade, they told him where the next attack was coming from. She threw her hands towards the ground, right where his next step would land. Instead of placing his foot down, the witch hunter kicked off the floor. He jumped onto a nearby chair just as the floorboards exploded upwards, pointed wooden ends coming up like a grotesque flower.

The witch hunter leaped off the chair, nearing the Celuxa for another strike. But once again he missed as she quickly sidestepped from the path of his blade. Her arm moved in a wide swing, telling the witch hunter that she was pulling in something from his left. He looked.

One of the two canvas drapes had been ripped from the entryway and shot towards him. His sword came up, slicing clean through the stained cloth. But suddenly the two pieces clasped together over him like hands catching a bug. His arms and sword were squeezed to his body as the canvas wrapped tighter and tighter around him. With a strained grunt, the witch hunter lost his balance and toppled over. He thrashed to no avail.

Through the canvas, he heard the Celuxa speak. "Enough of this!" she snapped. "I'm taking you to the Council, and you'll answer for what you've done!"

Ha, she thought she'd won. He stopped thrashing and felt her steps through the floorboards as she drew near. Suddenly, sharp clicks sounded in unison from his armor as pockets opened up. And from within them shot out small, jagged-toothed blades. They immediately cut slashes through the canvas. He heard the Celuxa cry out and quickly threw his arms out. The weakened canvas tore, and he was free. It fell heavy and shredded like the carcass of a cocoon around him as he quickly rose. The Celuxa stumbled back, a hand pressed tight over her abdomen where one of his blades had hit her. Already the dark, wine-colored blood was seeping across her clothes from underneath her fingers.

"How much more can you take, witch?" he snarled. The Celuxa scowled.

Suddenly, her hand shot out. He hadn't anticipated the speed given her wound. The torn canvas on the ground sprung to life, wrapping up his leg like a snake. The Celuxa pulled her hand back, and the canvas yanked the witch hunter off his balance. As he hit the ground, his sword flew out of his hands—a little too easily.

He was pulled a short distance across the ground until he was by the Celuxa. But she didn't try to kill him—that was her mistake. She thought losing his sword had disarmed him. How silly.

Her hand had disappeared behind her, just emerging with the glowing handcuffs, when he sprang up. She flew back as he had expected her to. But she wasn't his target.

His legs bunched. His hand planted flat on the floor, while the other reached for the short hilt on his hip. Then, he pounced up. The Kannki—this old fool—was just in the midst of pulling a very rickety, old shotgun from behind the bar. But the witch hunter had already vaulted over the counter and past the Kannki. A swivel on the ball of his foot, while his hand swiped the dagger from its hilt in one fluid movement, and suddenly he was behind Kantor with the old crustacean's head pulled back by a ridge and the dagger's blade up against the soft underside of the old pub owner's throat.

The Celuxa froze. And so the gridlock began.

"I don't know what you see in this old fool to make you value his life so," the witch hunter began slowly. "If I didn't know better about Celuxi, I would call it compassion. Now listen here—if you don't want to see this Kannki die, you'll do as I say. Put the cuffs down and lie flat on the ground."

"This was only supposed to be between you and me," the Celuxa hissed.

"This is between you, me, and your entire damn race," the witcher hunter shot back. "What they did to us. Now do as I say, or I swear I'll have this Kannki's head as my next ornament!"

The Celuxa hesitated for only a moment longer. Her breathing was harsh, labored from the wound in her stomach. Then, the handcuffs clattered on the floor by her feet. Slowly, she lowered herself facedown onto the floor. The witch hunter waited until she was flat on the ground. "Let's go," he growled to Kantor and dragged him from behind the bar. All the while, the blade remained pressed.

The witch hunter made his way over to the Celuxa. Just when he stood over her, he heard the clamor of heavy, running footsteps approaching. "More fools," the witch hunter grumbled under his breath, "trying to help this _witch. _I don't understand, I really don't."

Someone suddenly burst through the doorway, flinging aside the one remaining canvas flap. Just as they barreled through the threshold, the witch hunter hurled Kantor towards them. Arms flew out too late to catch the stumbling Kannki, and a male voice grunted loudly from the impact. The witch hunter crouched down, grabbing the handcuffs and latching the tightly over the Celuxa's wrist. Her head was turned towards him, and even from the corner of her eyes, her glare was fiery.

Leisurely, the witch hunter draped a hand over his knee as he regarded her. "I'm not going to kill you," he mockingly assured her. "Not here, at least. You're a witch—so you'll burn like one."

_"Ilia!"_

The cry made the witch hunter lift his head towards the door. His hand was already on the teleporter on his hip, and he saw little of whoever had run through the door and cried out. All he saw was the brief glimpse of red eyes, and then he and his captive were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Support from above—a spacecraft hovering planet-side above Sangorine—had teleported down a motorbike for Adad to use to pursue the car. Horsepower had been replaced by a smaller frame that would allow the agent to zip through the smallest spaces: between packed cars or close alleyways. Adad didn't need speed anyway. The car carrying his fellow agent wasn't particularly fast. All that mattered was that he could follow while remaining off the street. Intel had told him this cartel had been operating for a while, and that meant these guys likely were hypersensitive to anyone tailing them.

"She got a phone on her? Anything that can be tracked?" he heard one of the kidnappers say through the earpiece.

"I don't—."

"Shut up, bitch." It was that gilled alien. Adad was already looking forward to sinking a bit of steel into him. "Frisk her. If she tries to stop you, break her hand."

"No!" another hissed. "The boss wants them untouched—at least until they reach him. Any soiling gotta be done, _he _does it. You got it?"

"Yeah, fine," was the response in a disappointed grumble. "Come here, bitch. Let's see what you're hiding."

Adad heard scuffling through the earpiece, likely Ilia struggling against whoever had his hands on her. "Don't you—get _off—_!" She suddenly cried out.

_"Oh ho_, these are nice. Big and juicy—a handful each. Now what are you hiding down h—?" There was the sharp sound of a strike, and this time the cartel member yelped in pain. "Fucking bitch, I'll—!"

"Hey, cool it!" the other voice snapped. "If you leave any bruises on her, it's YOUR head!" The scuffling quieted down.

These dumbasses had been too distracted to check her head. Thankfully Ilia's earpiece had remained undiscovered. It was actually hidden from plain sight in her hair above her ear, but anyone who wasn't a half-shat idiot looking for trackers would have known to check for any sort of headpiece.

'Stop just thinking to yourself,' Adad reminded himself. 'She's just a rookie and she's stuck in that car full of fucking sleaze balls.' He looked up. "Ilia—you're on an overpass heading to the east side of Catris. The rich residential area. Doesn't surprise me in the least that there'd be a trafficking ring set up there. Catris's high and mighty has a reputation for dirty hands. I'm following underneath the overpass right now."

Shit, there was a dead end up ahead. "Listen, I'm gonna have to make a little detour. Don't worry—I've still got your signal, loud and clear. As soon as you reach the hideout, I'll be there too." The motorbike underneath him purred louder as he eased down on the pedal. A sharp turn and skid later, he was zooming up a stained concrete ramp and into the opening of a yawning sewer pipe.

The dying light of Sangorine's last setting sun stretched his shadow far in front of him as he sped deeper and deeper into the darkening pipe. The echoes bouncing from the damp, rusted walls magnified the subdued purr of the bike's engine. God, it stank. He couldn't imagine making the trek through here on foot.

There was a fork up ahead. Quickly, Adad glanced down at the tracker. He steered the bike towards the tunnel going right. "So here's what is gonna happen," he heard the gilled alien say through the earpiece. "We're gonna take you to your new home, and that's what it'll be from now on. You're gonna meet the boss—he's a real upstanding guy. He'll treat you real well, but only if you return the favor. Be a good girl and do what he says. Otherwise, he'll get upset. And you…" His greasy voice grew louder, though his tone grew nauseatingly intimate. Adad knew he was leaning towards Ilia. "… You really don't want that to happen. You get me, darling?"

"Yes."

"Good, good. You seem like a quick learner, but we'll see." The gilled alien laughed. "Welcome to the family."

'God damn it, God damn it,' Adad thought. 'I'm going to need a shower after this. Three, at least. I can't imagine how Ilia's feeling up there.' He checked the tracker again. The car had stopped.

"This is it?" Ilia asked.

"Home's a lot closer than you thought, isn't it? Oh, but don't think you'll be able to run to safety. We've got eyes all over—you try and you'll just be dragged right back. You can take my word for it… or you can go ahead and try. But don't say I didn't warn you." Adad heard the car door open. "Come on—get out."

They had already taken her to the destination, and there didn't seem to be an end to this damn pipe. On second thought—Adad stopped just in time, the wheels of the motorbike squealing against the slimy pipe floor. It gave an unpleasant squelch as Adad planted a foot down to balance himself, his gaze turned upwards to follow the ladder that hid against the shadow of the wall.

He dismounted from the bike and stepped over to the ladder. Its rusted rungs were in no less a grimy state than the rest of the sewers. Adad gave a groan of disgust. He braced himself, then gripped the rungs and climbed up. The clangs of his boot soles hitting against the metal reverberated through the tunnels.

There was a manhole cover at the top of the ladder. Adad gave it a firm push, and it gave. Slowly, he moved it aside. A slice of light in the shape of a crescent moon cut down through the darkness of the sewers. Finally, when there was enough space, Adad lifted himself out into the open. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweetness of sewage-free air. Still crouched, he briskly wiped the grime from his hands on the thighs of his pants.

Suddenly, he was aware that he wasn't alone. Slowly, Adad glanced over his shoulder.

A Sangorinian child was frozen atop his streamer-lined tricycle. The two held gazes for several terse, silent seconds as the strangeness of the situation had them both at a loss for words.

The child was the first to speak. "Geez, Mister, you _stink!"_

"Run along now."

"Are you a hobo? Do you live down there?"

"No, I… I was doing _maintenance_," Adad grumbled.

"You don't look like the maintenance man."

"And what makes you think all maintenance men look the same?" Adad countered as he dragged the manhole cover back in place.

The child's brow furrowed in stubborn frustration. _"Because—!"_

"Yeah, yeah, kid, move along," Adad dismissed as he straightened up. "I'm done working here. Go home."

The child stared at him for a second longer. Then, he said, "I still think you're a hobo," before pedaling off.

Adad turned away. "I hate rich kids," he mumbled under his breath. "No fucking manners." Now that the air was quiet once again, he realized that there was audio being funneled in through the earpiece. There were two voices conversing. One was Ilia. The other, a girl's, was unfamiliar.

"Is that a bruise?" Ilia asked.

"It's… it's fine," the girl replied. She sounded young. "Some of the guests are just a bit… well, rough. It'll fade in a few days, I hope. I can't look like this for the next one."

"It should be light enough tomorrow to cover with foundation," another girl said. "You should tell the boss—it'd lift up his mood knowing you can be available sooner."

"What if it smudges?" the first girl fretted.

"You can borrow mine—it won't smudge."

"You sound like you would know," Ilia said, her voice laden with shock.

"Over time, you pick things up."

"Gods, is this… is this what it's like?" Ilia asked.

"It's not that bad, really. Well, you… you're starting out. The boss is going to want to assess you. He does that with all the new girls. Just… just keep telling yourself that it'll be over. It'll be over, okay? No matter how long it seems. And when he's done, we'll be here for you."

"It… Gods, I'm so sorry. It doesn't have to be this way. I'm here to help. I'm—."

"Ilia, _stop_," Adad warned sharply through the earpiece. Thankfully, the Celuxa quickly abided. "The only ones here that should know about you and I are _you and I_—that's it. I know you're trying to help, but what we say while undercover could make or break us. There's no way to take back words once they're spoken, and they get around faster than you think."

"But none of you are part of this at all," Ilia muttered softly. "You never should have been."

"Pardon?" a girl asked.

"Sorry, I'm just a bit nervous."

"It's okay… it's okay, really. Here, let's get you in the shower. I think it'll be best before the boss sees you."

"This," Ilia said with a brisk, disgusted laugh, "this is bizarre. Ceremonial, almost. Yes—that's it. Ceremonial rape."

"Shh, don't talk like that. Come on."

'This is a rough first mission,' Adad thought as the trafficking house came to view. 'Even _my_ skin's crawling. Man, what I wouldn't give to deal with a good old, simple murder.' Even as he approached the house, he gave it a wide berth—there were likely spotters all around the perimeter. But places like these always had blind spots.

Adad paused, still two houses away. Quickly, he crouched down behind a car parked along the curb. As he pondered his next move, he couldn't help but examine the trafficking house from around the corner of the car.

It looked just like its neighboring structures—nothing conspicuous about it at all. In fact, Adad wouldn't have been surprised if several neighbors had no idea of the sinister activities going on within.

Knocking came from the earpiece. From Ilia's end, a voice called out, "The boss is on his way home. Are you almost done? Do you need help in there?"

"I'm fine," Ilia answered curtly. Then, quietly into the earpiece, she asked, "How far do I have to take this?"

Adad paused. The answer he wanted to say stood at the tip of his tongue, yet he couldn't bring himself to say it. _As far as it takes_. They needed their cover for as long as they could. But that might've meant…

Before he could answer, a harsher knocking suddenly rapped through the earpiece. "What's taking so long in there?" someone angrily demanded. Adad recognized the voice of the gilled alien. "The boss'll be here any minute—you _don't_ want to keep him waiting!"

Adad heard the rumble of an approaching car. He quickly glanced over his shoulder. A black vehicle was slowing as it approached where he hid. Any second now, it would pass the car he had hidden himself behind. Suddenly, an idea came to him. He crept up to the front end of the car and waited. Just as the black vehicle passed, Adad hurried forward and kept to the side of it. He maintained a crouch to keep from being spotted by those on the inside. The black car was slow enough that he could creep with it and stay out of sight of any spotters around the house.

He followed it up the driveway and into the open garage. Just as it stopped, Adad quickly dropped to the ground and rolled underneath the car, barely dodging the doors as they opened. He watched feet emerge from within the belly of the vehicle. Immediately the air was filled with the continuance of a conversation.

"—call him in the morning. If push comes to shove, we'll go over there and pay him a little visit ourselves."

"Good, good," a gruff voice answered. The authoritative tone told Adad exactly who he was. "Now this new girl—she's ready for me?"

"Last I heard, yes. They just picked her from the streets, but you know they make quick work of them. She should be ready at any point you desire."

"Ha, she might not be waiting long!" A harsh laugh struck Adad's ears. "It's been a while since I broke new flesh in. I've been craving for another chance."

"I've been told this one is… a foreigner. An unusual one—quite the looker, though," the first voice quickly added. "No doubt she'll bring in those looking for something exotic."

"Hm, yes, I've had a few of the clientele say how they tire of these Sangorinian sluts." The conversation was beginning to fade as the men headed inside. Adad listened as the door shut and the ensuing silence told him he was alone in the garage.

_Finally_. He quickly crawled out from underneath the hot car. Patting the dust from himself, Adad noticed with disdain a grease stain on his jacket. 'Oh well—better to smell like diesel than sewer shit.'

"Hey!" a bark cut through the air. Adad looked. An alien—one of the cartel members—stood at the entrance to the garage. God damn it. "Who're you? Don't you move!" The alien reached for his hip, likely to drop a weapon.

'Time to do a quick pull from the hat, Adad, unless you want a bullet to the face.'

"Hey, _hey_, cool it," Adad assured, letting his voice take on a gruff tone. "Boss has got himself a new girl and you really want to be shouting up a storm out here where he can still hear you?"

The alien cartel member hesitated, though his hand remained hovered at his hip. "Don't recognize you."

"My uncle's one of the boss's buds—I told him I'd rather be making the big bucks, no matter what it took. He let me in on this whole gig he's been running, and told me I could take a share if I pulled my weight." His words seemed to work—for now. There was still a layer of suspicion separating him from this bulbous-eyed alien. Adad continued to talk as he stepped over. "Way to make a guy's first day by nearly pulling a gun on him. God, is everyone this paranoid around here?"

"You don't look like—."

By that time, Adad had reached the cartel member. A hand flew up and slammed the alien's forehead against the concrete wall. Adad caught his head as it bounced back with one hand, the other drawing the knife strapped to his thigh. He pulled the head back, exposing the throat, and stabbed the blade deep into the alien's throat. It was a clean severance of the esophagus—giving his victim no chance to cry out.

Adad pulled the knife out to let the blood flow. The alien stumbled, clutching at his throat as crimson fell in a waterfall down his front. Adad spied the weapon holstered at his hip and helped himself to it. Then, he grabbed the alien by the arm, pulling him to the car. Opening the backseat, he threw the dying alien in.

With the coast once again clear, Adad looked around. Ilia was somewhere in the house, but it was a laughably bad idea trying to get to her from inside. At the same time, trying to locate her from the outside was a risky gamble.

"Ilia, if you can talk, tell me where you are. The tracker's not precise enough to tell me which room you're in."

"I left the bathroom window open," came Ilia's hushed response. "But I don't think I'll be—." A loud rustling interrupted her. Adad crept out of the garage and moved quietly along the wall of the house. Then, he heard the gilled alien through the earpiece.

"Get over here," he snarled. "He wants to see you. _Now."_

"Wait, I don't—!"

"Shut it!"

Adad looked up. He saw the open window above him. He then looked down at the gun in his hand, realizing he would need both of his hands to climb. And there was no way he was going to stick the damn thing in the waistband of his pants—he respected himself and the safety of his dick way too much.

Oh well. Adad tucked the gun underneath some nearby shrubbery. Firearms weren't his thing anyway, so it wasn't a terrible loss.

Straightening up, Adad's gaze rose back up to the window. He quickly surveyed the wall in front of him, and then dug his foot into a crevice in the brickwork. With it, he kicked up and caught the ledge of a cornice. His legs pushed against the rough wall while his arms hauled him up. Once he had leveled himself enough, he bunched his legs. Then, with a powerful spring, he pushed himself up and grabbed the windowsill.

"Well, well. They were right about you. You really are… quite special."

Adad froze, but then realized that the voice was coming from the earpiece. It was the same one he had heard in the garage. He knew she didn't have much time left.

"They're really going to love you, you know. I like what I see. Now let me see the rest of you."

"Don't touch me."

The fear in her voice struck Adad. It wasn't an act. With a heave, he pulled himself up through the open window.

"The more you refuse me, the more painful this'll be for you. That's not something you want, is it? Come on, you might even enjoy yourself." There was a pause—thick and unforgettable. "If I have to ask again, I won't do it nicely."

Ilia let out a shaky breath. "Okay."

"Say 'yes sir'."

"Y… yes sir."

Adad crossed the bathroom and cautiously opened the door on the other side. Beyond was a small bedroom. A Sangorinian girl was there, quietly sorting through a dresser drawer. Adad opened the door a little wider. The girl must've caught sight of it from her peripheral. She turned. Adad saw her eyes widen and quickly put a finger to his lips before a sound could escape her.

"I'm here for Ilia," he explained quickly. "Where did they take her?"

The Sangorinian girl could only shake her head.

"I have to help her—please."

"They'll… they'll kill you if you try. There are eyes _everywhere_ and they'll see you if you leave this room. I don't know how you even got in."

"Kill me? I'd love to see that happen," Adad retorted. "Just tell me. If he hurts her, I'll never forgive myself." The words escaping his own mouth bewildered him, yet his sense of urgency numbed that shock down.

The girl hesitated for just another heartbeat, and then told him which part of the second floor to go. "When you get there, you'll see a long hallway. At the end of it, there'll be a door."

"You have my thanks." He went to the door, placing a hand on the doorknob.

"Slowly—that's it. I want to see every inch of you." A dark, grisly chuckle came through the earpiece. "They'll pay good money for you, I'm sure. But first, I want to see what that body can do myself."

Adad twisted the doorknob and pulled it open. At the same time, he drew the knife from his thigh.

There were two aliens outside, and both noticed him at the same time. They barely had time to react. By the time they'd registered what they had seen, Adad's arm flung out. The knife cut through the air and embedded itself deep in the neck of the alien further away.

The closer one had drawn his gun. Adad saw the barrel pointed at him for a split second before he grabbed the barrel and forced it up. He closed his other hand into a fist and slammed it into the alien's stomach, forcing him to lurch forward with a choked cry of pain. With the grip loosened, Adad wrenched the gun away. Still gripping the barrel, he struck the butt of the handgun against the alien's scaly head. The alien fell like a sack of rocks.

"Why stop the flow now? That necklace too—take it off."

"I… I can't."

"Did you just refuse me?"

As Adad hurried past the second alien, he pulled his knife from the corpse's neck. Now, he was running. The hallway was just around this corner—

—And around it were another three traffickers. The nearest one had his back turned and never saw Adad as he came up from behind and slashed his throat. The next one was in the middle of drawing his firearm by the time the agent was on him. A stab to the gut, then a slash across the chest—Adad shoved him aside to bleed to death.

Immediately, Adad recognized the last one—oh, he had been looking forward to sinking his dagger into this motherfucker's nasty gills. The alien scowled, not looking the least bit phased at the sight of his comrades slaughtered so quickly and effortlessly in front of him. "I'll skin you for that," he hissed, his oily voice taking on a deep, reptilian gurgle. "And make a shiny profit from it—your stripes will make a nice jacket, and there's always a buyer."

"Yeah, and I'm sure you'd make a kickin' pair of boots, but I'm no sicko." Adad casually flipped his knife in the air and caught it with a tight fist. "No, I'm just gonna kill you." He saw the gilled alien's hand fly to his hip.

"I did what you asked. Let me leave the necklace on."

Adad flew forward just as the barrel was pointed at him. The flipping blade, launched from his hand, struck the gun and sent it flying from the alien's hand. The knife had also managed to nick him across the knuckles. Adad saw the bright red score just as the gilled alien cried out and pulled his hand back. In a flash, the agent tackled him to the ground.

At her refusal, the boss's voice came through eerily soft through the earpiece. "Now see here, darling, I don't like seeing a woman acting tough. It isn't her place."

Adad drew a fist back, intending to smash it into that horrible face. But just as he brought it down, the gilled alien reached up and caught it. The cracked lips opened, and Adad caught sight of the ribbed insides of the alien's mouth. For a brief second, he spotted something erupt from the alien's throat. Then he was blinded—something hot splattered over his face. The skin touched by the liquid stung with unbearable pain.

"So you better fall back in line…" His words grew harsher and harsher, sounding forced as though coming through gritted teeth. "… Before I _force_ you back in. If I want this necklace off, it _comes. The fuck. Off!"_ There was a sharp snap, and then the distant clink of something heavy and metallic dropping to the floor.

Adad felt the alien kick him off. As he hit the ground, he struggled to wipe the stinging liquid from his eyes. A crushing weight pressed down on him as the gilled alien pinned him down. Instinctively, Adad shielded his face with his forearms. He felt jagged teeth sink into one of them, cutting cleanly through the sleeve and piercing the skin underneath.

Through the earpiece, Ilia let out a shuddering breath. Softly, she asked, "Do you know what you've done? Do you know what _I am?"_

The gilled alien bit down harder. Adad forced down a pained grunt. He didn't know what this alien was, but it had powerful jaws. Those teeth could very well break through the bone if he didn't act fast. But trapped underneath the weight of the gilled alien and blinded by the stinging liquid, Adad didn't know what to do in that moment.

"I know that you're a whore who doesn't know her place! And I'm going to fuck you raw until you learn—!" Suddenly, the boss's infuriated roar was cut off.

The boom of a gunshot ripped through the air—the vice-like grip on Adad's forearm released. He felt the gilled alien fall over. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Adad wiped his bleary eyes with his sleeve. Through hazy vision, he the girl he had spoken to back in the room. The gun was in her trembling hands.

"That's twice I owe you," he told her as he pushed himself painfully to his feet.

"Just get them out of here. Let them go home."

"I will." He turned towards the end of the hall.

Adad was at the door. As he reached for it, he heard Ilia through the earpiece.

"How _dare_ you treat me like I was below a worm like you! If you had known what I truly am, you'd be on your _knees!"_

The air was suddenly filled with what felt like electricity—pricking unbearably into Adad's skin. He quickly braced himself and threw the door open.

It led to the master bedroom. The curtains had been drawn, and so the lighting in the room was dim. Clothes, the ones she had donned for her disguise, were scattered on the floor. As was the black choker with its star charm. Adad saw Ilia standing there by the foot of the bed. In front of her was the trafficking boss. Oddly, he had not reacted to Adad's intrusion. He stood rigid, unmoving.

Something was illuminating the dimness of the room. Adad realized it wasn't coming from any of the light fixtures—it was coming from the Celuxa's eyes. They glowed brilliantly white, illuminating the fury on her face.

_"You'll pay for every life you ruined!"_

The trafficking boss suddenly began wailing. His rigidness was broken as his hands flew up to grip tightly against his head. The wailing grew and grew until it erupted into a scream—a piercing, tortured shriek that only lasted for a second.

It was cut off by the most horrible, wet, organic boom. It was a firework of red mist, skull fragments, and brain matter that splattered on the floor and walls. Even the ceiling. The boss's hands, now gripping nothing, dropped to his side. The headless body teetered on its feet for a moment, and then collapsed before the Celuxa.

Ilia's breathing was rough. The light from her eyes slowly faded. Her gaze suddenly met Adad's before it dimmed completely. It was only then, after everything he had just witnessed, that Adad realized she was completely naked. Speckles of blood dotted her bare skin. Adad cleared his throat. The Celuxa's hand quickly flew up to the base of her neck, feeling nothing there. She broke their gaze as she lowered her eyes and frantically searched the floor.

Adad watched as she stepped over the clothes and bent down to retrieve the black necklace. It was only after she secured the necklace around her neck that she took the clothes from the floor. Adad quickly returned to his senses and turned away.

"I don't think there are any others left," Adad said, staring out at the bodies in the hall. "As soon as the clean up crew get here, we can return to the ship and report back to the Council."

"Are you…" Ilia's voice was soft and hoarse. "… Going to tell them about my necklace?"

"It doesn't sound like you want me to."

Only silence answered him.

* * *

A harsh sun beat down upon the rolling bronze dunes of the Sechura Desert. A small structure rose from the rippling sands. At the base, several thin logs had been criss-crossed like X's. Their glistening, wet surfaces stank of gasoline. From the center of these crossed logs rose a thick wooden pole.

It was to this pole that she was tied, her arms bound tightly to keep her from using her powers.

Behind her, the witch hunter was splattering the last of the fuel onto the crossed logs. When the canister was empty, he tossed it aside. Then, he climbed up the ramp that led to his bound captive.

"It's been a while since I fought against a Celuxa," the witch hunter conversed casually as he began undoing the restraints on one of her arms. "I'll give you ladies this—you do know how to put up a good fight. Better than any other opponent that I've faced. And now look at you—you who dared to step into the public eye after operating in secret under the Star Cluster Council for… who knows how long? I bet you thought you were safe. Or, at the very least, that there were no more witch hunters around."

"There is a reason none are left," the Celuxa argued. "The reason being a lack of one—why hold onto your hatred for us?"

"I found plenty of reason during the war."

"A war I was never a part of."

"That may be so, but you are the result of a mistake made by the Star Cluster Council. They ended the war when the Celuxi surrendered. They should have only stopped after complete extermination. Their mercy was a fallacy. That power you and your kind possess—all it does is create monsters."

With the restraints undone, the witch hunter freed one of the Celuxa's arms. He held it by the wrist with a steely grip. In his other hand was his dagger. He measured a short distance down the Celuxa's forearm, gently tapping the idea spot with his blade. "But before I set the righteous flames unto your miserable being, I'll claim my trophy." He lifted the blade.

Suddenly, he felt a pulse of electricity through the hand that gripped hers. A sensation unlike any he had ever felt swept over him. He suddenly felt thoughts being forcefully reeled to the surface of his mind—memories from deep, deep within him.

A little boy, face full of joy, laughing as he ran into arms outstretched for him. As quickly as it had come, the memory of the child disappeared and was replaced by another. It was the two of them practicing swordplay. The young man's eyes were alight with pride at the praise received.

Another memory. The young man was in his arms again, this time in a tight embrace. He was crying—so hard that his entire frame shook. "I should have protected her! What happened to mother was my fault!"

And then his own voice. "No." He had always wished he'd said more that day.

Another memory. This one was frantic, blurry. The young man was in his arms again, this time cradled. His own blood was splattered all over him. In the background played the cacophony of battle.

The young man was donned as a warrior, but through his eyes he looked like nothing more than a child. Trembling, bloodied lips parted. "Father…"

The witch hunter cried out, ripping his grip away from the Celuxa to grab his head. He stumbled back on the ramp. His balance tipped and he fell onto the sand, throwing it up into the sweltering air in splashes of amber. "What was that? What did you do?" he screamed.

The Celuxa regarded him solemnly. "I understand now."

"You will do nothing but _burn!"_ The witch hunter ripped the lighter from his belt. A bulb of fire ignited from its narrow spout. He hurled it into the crossed logs.

Yet he knew it was a lost cause. The Celuxa's hand had been freed. As the flames climbed up, the ropes around the stake were slacked and empty. The witch hunter found himself alone, and he screamed from the anger and the pain.


End file.
